


In Secret Places

by Brinchestiel



Series: Secrets Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Awesome Missouri Moseley, Bad Parenting, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Bobby Singer Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester, Bobby's Pure Heart, Canon-Typical Violence, Charlie Bradbury Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester, Charlie's Gremlin, Coming of Age, Dean/Cas Big Bang, Dean/Cas Big Bang 2018, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, False Accusations, First Kiss, Gay Castiel, Grief, Healing, Homeless Castiel, Homelessness, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Sam Winchester Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester, Slow Burn, Special Guest Star: Barrow McWheelerson, Stalking, Teen Angst, Teen Castiel, Teen Dean Winchester, Teen Sam Winchester, Teenagers, The Secret Garden - Freeform, Underage Drinking, bildungsroman, everyone ships it, nobody actually gets raped
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-03 03:06:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 26
Words: 106,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16317941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brinchestiel/pseuds/Brinchestiel
Summary: Seventeen-year-old Castiel Krushnic doesn’t trust, doesn’t cry, and he certainly does not love. Life hasn’t exactly been the easiest ride, so when he gets stuck living with Missouri Moseley and the Winchester brothers in the dead-end town of Janesville, Wisconsin, life seems like it's set to get a whole lot worse. What he learns, however, is that things in life aren’t always as they first appear. And people are never who you thought they were. They can grow, change, and bloom but only if you let them."If you look the right way, you can see that the whole world is a garden."- The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett.





	1. Anemone

**Author's Note:**

> **please see end notes, where I address the rape warning**
> 
> I first want to thank my artist, Danielle (@lotrspnfangirl) for going absolutely above and beyond for this fic. She was working on several fics at the same time as this one, and I can only imagine how full her plate was! But, to still turn out art for every chapter of this story?! It's exceptional, and I'm truly thankful to her, and grateful for this partnership! Thank you! All her work is displayed throughout this work, but you can find her art masterpost right here: [ Art ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16299308)
> 
> Second, my most sincere thanks goes to the queen of all betas, @MrsHays who rescued this story from the grave and worked tirelessly with me every damn day. I started this story over two years ago, and had all but given up on it. With her help, it stands here today. I'm not just using this cliche for dramatic effect, this story genuinely wouldn't exist if it weren't for her boundless enthusiasm and inexhaustible support. I'm eternally in her debt. This story is, in a large way, dedicated to her.
> 
> Final, but by no means lesser, thanks go to the mods, Muse and Jojo, for hosting such a well-run challenge, and always being around to answer all our panic-driven questions! I have had a blast with this, my first ever Big Bang, and it's all down to their huge amount of crystal-clear resources and endless patience. You guys did a stellar job, as always, you should feel immensely proud of all you've done here. 
> 
> AND FINALLY, Jesus, I made a playlist for this fic, a collection of songs I've listened to throughout the entire creation of this work, featuring songs that I feel capture the mood of this work perfectly. Feel free to have a wee listen, on shuffle or in order (I've tried to sort them into a vague cohesive order to be listened to while reading). Or don't, I won't know either way. Here's the link-y link for your delectation and delight: [Spotify Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/brysie64/playlist/3Zg10M1efyLD5DukD6dATk?si=4-e-TAYUSAaf1NX5WwBkjA)
> 
> Recommended Tracks for this Chapter:  
> Running Up That Hill - Placebo  
> Beggar In The Morning - The Barr Brothers  
> Young Liars - TV On The Radio  
> Shelter - Dermot Kennedy
> 
> Kay, that's enough of a speech, I reckon! I really do hope you enjoy this, one of the biggest achievements of my life... is that too dramatic? Probably.

 

The homeless shelter in downtown Madison was already teeming by mid-afternoon. The air buzzed with the kind of summer heat that made it hard to concentrate. It stirred up the stifling smell from the men who stood outside, cigarettes hanging from their lips or pinched between street-dirtied fingers. They watched the slow-moving queue with deadened eyes and half-baked interest. Castiel waited in line, tapping his toes impatiently in time with the people in front of him; forgotten, washed-up, desperate people. He took a step every few agonising minutes, the sun searing against the back of his neck until he was through the front door, inside the shelter’s clean little lobby. By the time it was his turn to approach the desk, it was getting dark outside. The line behind him continued to grow.

The woman who sat behind the reinforced glass was one he hadn’t met before, but she had a generous smile and wide, kind eyes.

“Bed for the night?” she asked.

Castiel nodded, pulling at his backpack, one strap clinging to his shoulder. He hoped it didn’t look too new; lifting from anywhere wasn’t tolerated here.

“Okay,” the woman said, turning to him with another bright smile. Almost too bright given her job. She’d have to refuse shelter to any number of the people queueing behind him, Castiel thought, “Name and age?”

“Castiel Krushnic,” he replied, spelling both names for her by sheer force of habit, “Seventeen.”

“Nice name,” she said, “have you stayed here before, Castiel?”

“Yeah, in and out for a few weeks,” he said, scanning the room for a blonde head in the crowd that had begun to accumulate.

The woman’s eyes turned sad, “So young.”

“Sorry?”

The woman waved him off, her short nails clacking against her computer keyboard. With one decisive tap a nearby printer whirred into action. She lifted the paper, grabbed a pen and slipped them carefully through the gap in the glass.

“I’m sure you know what to do,” she remarked, her voice tinged with pity.

Castiel signed the sheet with a tight smile and pushed it back through to her. In return, he got his two paper tokens: one for clothes, the other for his bed assignment. They were small, no bigger than a postage stamp. The first night he’d come here, Castiel had lost them and was forced to set up for the night on the lobby floor. He’d learned the hard way to slip them somewhere close to his person. He favored the spot in his shoe, pressed under his heel but he’d seen women stuff them into their bras. There was a guy with a broken nose and a permanent man-bun who kept them tucked into a cast that covered most of his left arm. Claire, the blonde he was keeping an eye out for, preferred to keep them clutched in her fist at all times. When she finally handed them over to officials they’d have to spend at least a minute smoothing out the creases.

“All set,” the woman behind the desk sighed, “get some sleep, hon.”

Castiel gave her a curt nod and set off to his left. At the doorway, he was handed the plastic-wrapped bar of soap and towel he’d come to know and dread. Hygiene was of utmost importance in these establishments, Castiel understood that, but he would give most anything for a shower curtain.

He hung his towel on one of the many pegs that lined the shower room’s far-right wall and stripped quickly. His self-consciousness never eased, no matter how many times he’d been through this process. He covered himself with his hands as he shuffled over to the nearest available shower head, his feet quickly soaked in the suds that ran from the other men’s bodies. He flinched, as he always did, at the first hit of cold water to his head, setting his teeth chattering. He turned to face the wall and let the water smooth his almost-black hair against his forehead before opening the soap and running it quickly across his chest and arms, hissing as he pressed a little too harshly against the bruises nestled there. The water never truly warmed up, but the pressure was enough to work at the knots huddled just beneath his shoulder blades, to ease the tension clustered at his temples.

Claire had pestered him for his story ever since she’d caught a glimpse of his battered body. The bruises were a lot worse when they’d first met a few weeks ago; angry black and green, and everywhere. Castiel could barely move without crying out. They covered his knuckles, his face, much of his torso and his arms: his legs the skin of rotting fruit. Every time he closed his eyes he heard it; the screech of the tires, the wailing sirens, saw the blood that trickled from his brother’s head down to his half-closed eyes.

Castiel slammed a fist into the shower wall and immediately cradled his hand against his chest with a hiss. The fading pain in his bruised knuckles throbbed anew, and he cursed quietly, sucking on the skin like a child.

There was a pain in his throat, too, the hot kind of pain that Castiel recognised as the tell-tale sign of tears. He hadn’t shed a single tear since he was five years old; tears were weakness. A frailty of the mind. Castiel was tough, he had to be. He held his emotions close, used them as armour. Nothing had ever broken through.

“Those are some pretty bloomers you got there, son,” a voice growled beside him. Castiel fought the urge to throw up. “How’d you get ‘em?”

He gritted his teeth and shivered as the cold of the water sank deep into his bones.

“You get yourself in trouble?” The voice was now joined by calloused fingers tracing the bruise on Castiel’s upper arm. He closed his eyes and wished himself anywhere else.

“Hey, I’m talkin’ to you,” the voice was now accompanied by that same hand, firm and insistent on his naked shoulder. He wondered if that hand could feel him begin to shake.

“Leave me alone,” he said through gritted teeth. The fingers tightened, and something burst behind Castiel’s eyelids.

“Don’t touch me!” he yelled as he hit the hand away, no longer concerned with his dignity, but instead self-preservation of the basest kind.

“Hey,” said the attendant from the doorway, his nonchalance ringing true and grating at Castiel till it stung, “that’s enough.”

Thoroughly shaken and fervently wishing he was with his brother, Castiel bolted to the safety of his belongings, stuffing his wet, shivering limbs back into the clothes he’d been wearing for the last few days. He checked his shoe for his tokens before leaving without a second glance.

Down the hall, he was handed a toothbrush and a small squeeze-packet of toothpaste, so like the fistfuls he and his brother would grab from the local diner, so their mom didn’t have to buy them off-brand ketchup.

He regarded himself in the age-spotted mirror above the sink. His reflection surprised him. The boy who stared back at him was haunted, bone-tired. The bruise along his jaw was less pronounced now but was still tender under his inquisitive touch. His eyes were dull, a muddy grey almost, instead of their usual blue.

After removing his phone and charger, stuffing them deep into the pockets of his jeans, Castiel joined a third line to deposit his backpack. The man sat behind the desk was old and bored. Castiel handed over his new bag, and the man looked over it with half-wakeful eyes. Seemingly satisfied, he chucked it behind him and gave Castiel another impossibly small token.

“Keep that safe,” he grumbled.

Castiel mumbled his thanks. The rising feeling of helplessness was hard to squash, but Castiel swallowed the bitter pill as best he could. There was a half-blind woman that Castiel huddled with once, when the shelter was full and he was forced to the neighboring alleyways for the night. She was friends with a rat called Josephine that lived in her tattered jacket pocket. The woman told him, in her reedy voice, "Don't dwell on where ya been, sugar-pie, just think on where ya are." Castiel thought on that as he followed his feet down the hallway, concentrating on the _right now_. This was his reality. He had a bed and a roof for the night. There was always the chance he wouldn’t, but he did tonight. His mind swam in a potent mixture of panic and self-doubt, but he breathed through it, focusing on the solid walls, the hubbub of other people around him, the clean floor beneath his feet. He could do this. He could prove everyone wrong. He was going to be just fine.

He was herded into a small room, the volume increasing tenfold as men and women gathered together on uncomfortable plastic chairs, like the ones Castiel remembered from school. Castiel kept a wary eye out for the man who had grabbed him, skin still crawling from his touch. A small painting of Jesus was propped up by a shoddy, handmade wooden cross on the table at the front.

Castiel was directed into a seat and sat as a plump man shuffled to the riser at the front. He stood behind Jesus and spoke clearly to those gathered before him.

“God has not forsaken you,” he spoke passionately, “my children, God loves you.”

Castiel cast his gaze about the room, watching the reactions of those around him. He found Claire, her keen and bright eyes having already sought him out. He was flooded with relief at the sight of her. If she was here, she was safe. She gave him a wave and an exaggerated yawn. They’d sat through this particular sermon together many times. She mimed a vague action that, to him, read ‘see you at dinner,’ to which he gave a little nod. She grinned and turned back to face the front as an official bent low to scold her for her inattention.

Castiel scoffed and closed his eyes, letting the drone of the Minister’s voice wash over him. Claire was so strong. He admired her spirit. Homelessness had not broken her, as it had so many of the others gathered there. She shone bright and laughed loud. She was just a child: fourteen years old. But she wore her eyeliner bold, and she was a crazed animal when threatened. She was tough, and Castiel supposed, reluctantly, that she was his only friend.

Castiel wouldn’t let this break him. Whether it was Jesus (who had been a constant figure in his life, whether he believed in him or no), the Minister, or some force from within himself, Castiel decided to survive, like Claire had survived, and he would do so without losing himself, without giving up. He had to be there for his brother whenever he got out of… wherever he was. Castiel would have a house of his own by then, where they could both live. They’d get a dog or something, and they’d live happily ever after. Just the two of them. He held the fantasy close to his chest, let it warm him where the cold of this place seeped deepest.

After the preaching came the dinner line, a bowl of piping hot soup with slightly stale bread serving as his reward. His hunger surprised him, pouncing suddenly, and he gulped his food desperately, the soup burning his tongue and the insides of his cheeks.

“Slow down there, kid,” Claire joked as she came and sat beside him.

“What did we say about calling me ‘kid’?”

Claire shrugged, stuffing four spoonsful of soup into her mouth before looking to him with puffed-up cheeks.

“You’re ridiculous,” Castiel said.

They left the bustle of the cafeteria together, one step from clinging to each other like one held a branch in a raging river. Castiel felt protective of Claire in a way he hadn’t felt before; like an older brother, he supposed.

“Can we bunk together?” Claire asked the volunteer at the door to the sleeping quarters. The woman looked reproachfully at the two of them as she handed them their sheets in exchange for their tokens. Her voice was stern as a schoolmaster when she spoke,

“I’m sure I don’t need to reiterate the rules about boys and girls in the bun-”

“Geez, Maggie, give it a rest would ya? We were just _at_ the sermon,” Claire rolled her eyes with a put-upon sigh.

“Claire,” it always struck Castiel as bittersweet that the officials and Claire were on first-name basis, “you know the rule-”

“Yeah yeah, if he touches me I’ll be sure to scream bloody murder,” Claire said, raising three fingers, “Scout’s honor.”

Maggie rolled her eyes, but assigned them a pair of bunks nonetheless, “Just this once. Any funny business and you’re both out.”

Claire saluted her as she went past, “You’re the best.”

Castiel and Claire were allocated what was known as prime real estate: the bunk bed towards the far end of the room, butted against the wall, right where the plug sockets were. It meant, of course, that you had to share those sockets with the surrounding beds, and risked strangers looming over your bed to check their phones in the middle of the night, but it was better than no-man’s land, suspended right in the middle of the room. It gave them some privacy, which, for two minors, was particularly important. There should have been a separate room for them to sleep, away from the adults, but it had been under renovations for a few months.

Castiel made his bed, his newly-bruised knuckles aching sharply. He helped Claire on the top bunk with the corners of her sheet, then flopped onto his thin mattress, the springs squeaking under his weight. His brain spun wildly. For all the Minister had said he hadn’t been forsaken, Castiel was beginning to feel awfully like he had been. He hated to admit it, but after running away, he had hoped to be followed. To be brought back, kicking and screaming, and to be held and told it was going to be okay. That, of course, hadn’t happened. And now it probably wouldn’t.

Even Claire was a fleeting presence in his life. She disappeared, sometimes for days on end, and in those moments Castiel truly felt the weight of his solitude. _Nobody cares_ , some part of him whispered, _I’ll bet nobody’s even noticed you’re gone._ Claire, as if sensing his spiraling thoughts, dangled over the edge of her bunk with a grin.

“Can I help you?” Castiel deadpanned, pushing at the gathering darkness in his mind.

Claire simply chuckled and nodded to his knuckles, “What happened to your hand?” Castiel had quickly learned that vigilance was a virtue for runaways, but Claire was uncanny at times.

Castiel smirked, giving in at the sight of Claire’s unrelenting stare, “I punched the shower wall.”

Claire scoffed, “Well, I hope it deserved it.”

He lay quiet, staring up at the bottom of her bunk, unease bubbling through the cracks in his defense. He could almost hear her face soften.

“You wanna talk about it?” she asked quietly.

Castiel sighed and turned on his side to face her. She’d been pressing him to talk about what had happened to him in that persistent way she had since they’d first met, but he was afraid. Speaking it out loud made it real. He wasn’t ready for it all to have been anything other than a never-ending nightmare. He wasn’t ready to let go of the hope that any minute now he’d wake up to hear his brother singing “Eye of The Tiger” in the shower.

 

 

“Five minutes to light’s out, folks,” Maggie called from the doorway.

Claire disappeared from the side of his bunk. He heard the mattress give under her tiny body as she lay down. He imagined her staring at the ceiling or braiding her hair. She did that a lot. He wondered if weaving the golden strands between her fingers was some sort of self-soothe thing for her.

“My mom went crazy,” Claire said, so quietly he couldn’t even be sure he’d heard her speak. He wasn’t sure why she’d chosen that moment, with the fluorescent lights flickering above their heads, in a room full to the brim with strangers, to open up to him.

But Castiel didn’t say anything, gave her the room to speak.

“My dad died,” she continued, her voice, for the first time, betraying her age. She sounded vulnerable, “Suddenly, too. Motorcycle slid under a truck. Nurses said he was nothing more than an organ donor. Mom couldn’t hack it. One minute he was there, the next… she started asking _angels_ for guidance, started seeing them everywhere. Apparently, they told her to run.”

Castiel’s mother had gone through a religious phase too, just before she had him. She had turned to the church to get herself cleaned up and forgiven for her wretched life. His brother’s earliest memory, apparently, was the stained-glass window in St Andrew’s. His mother became enthralled by the idea of angels, and having named her first two sons after archangels, purely by happy accident, she searched until she stumbled upon Cassiel; an angel from the Kabbalah, angel of temperance, of tears and of solitude. The angel of Saturday, as it happened.

Castiel however, was born on a Thursday. His mother tweaked his name accordingly. His chest began to hurt, and he rubbed at the pain absent-mindedly with his bruised fingers.

Claire’s voice shook him out of his memories and back into the room, now dark. The shuffle of bodies sounded louder, more sinister when the lights were out.

“So, my mom took me and ran. We sofa-surfed for a while but… I guess she had to stop running at some point. She just broke, right before my eyes,” Claire whispered to the dark.

Castiel opened his mouth, but she anticipated that, too, her voice sharp, “I swear to God if you’re about to say you’re sorry…” Her voice trailed, became soft, childlike again, “I just want someone to tell me how strong I am for getting out of that place, how good I’m doing on my own, I don’t know, just…”

Castiel smiled ruefully at the bottom of her bunk. She was right, apologies never helped. They just made people feel even worse. He rolled onto his back, pressing his foot into her mattress, gently lifting her from the frame.

“You’re handling this shit real well, kid,” he whispered.

The deafening chorus of snoring, sleep-mumbling and night cries kept Castiel from falling asleep. He lay there in the dark for a long time, just staring at the bars of Claire’s bunk. He thought about his brother, even though he’d willed himself not to. The burning rubber of the tires, the glint of broken glass on the asphalt, his smile when he surprised Castiel on his last birthday with badly-made pancakes for breakfast. They’d driven their mom’s car far out of the city that day, eaten their own body weight in White Castle cheeseburgers and watched the sunset on the hood. It had been the best day. Castiel squeezed his eyes closed but the memories just brightened against the dark of his eyelids.

Him and his brother, drinking stolen liquor in the park, running from sirens until they collapsed, breathing labored, but laughing so hard they could barely stand. His brother standing up for him on his first day of high school and turning the TV volume up so loud Castiel could no longer hear the shouting from downstairs. Whispered secrets in the darkness of the pillow forts they made in their shared bedroom. The memories pressed close, suffocating him. Everything that _once was_ closed in around him, trapping him, threatened to swallow him whole.

“Claire,” he whispered, “Claire, you awake?”

“No,” she replied with a chuckle.

“Can I come up there?”

He figured seeking comfort wasn’t the same as dropping his armour completely. It still felt wrong though, revealing. He gathered his thin blanket closer to his chin in a lame attempt to protect himself.

“No,” Claire said, not unkindly. He heard a shuffle above him and saw her arm dangle over the side of the bunk. She flexed her fingers toward him, and he took her hand gratefully. She gave it a squeeze, but he didn’t feel strong enough to let go, not just yet.

“My brother and I… we crashed a car,” he said. Claire’s hand went still in his own, but he knew she wasn’t asleep, that she was listening. The simple warmth from her fingers gave him the courage he needed; it was time to wake up from the nightmare, face up to it, everything that had happened. He closed his eyes and told her everything.

 


	2. Bellwort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Tracks for Chapter:  
> Wolf Like Me - TV On The Radio  
> Get Free - The Vines  
> Imogen - Nick Mulvey  
> Run Boy Run - Woodkid  
> Silver Moon - Roo Panes

The Cadillac was parked in the temptingly empty street round the back of a sprawling apartment complex. Gabriel and Castiel, on their way home, admired the glossy-black body, completely unmarred, lit by the greasy spotlight of the streetlamp hovering nearby.

Gabriel broke away, grinning wickedly before slinging his backpack from his shoulder, which he unzipped with jerky pulls. Once open, he reached past candy wrappers and a mostly-empty bottle of Jack to the bottom, coming away with a lockout tool and a crooked, triumphant grin.

“Gabriel, no,” Castiel laughed, squinting at the windows that faced the street, looking for curtain-twitchers.

“Cassie, yes,” Gabe replied, his golden eyes luminous in the gloom, “just keep watch.”

Gabriel slipped the wire down into the Cadillac's passenger door frame, and fished for several tension-ridden minutes, until finally, the wire hooked onto the latch, the door clicking unlocked.

“Get in, Cas,” Gabriel said to his little brother, a wild rush of joy dancing through him.

Castiel’s fingers fumbled with the handle, his hands shaking with a mix of alcohol and adrenaline. He and Gabriel had snuck the bottle of Jack from their mother’s liquor cabinet, drank it in the secluded park in the middle of town. They did this often, the Krushnic brothers, and were well known delinquents in their neighbourhood. Gabriel didn’t care what anyone thought about him. And because Gabriel didn’t care, Castiel didn’t either. He craved this heady rush, this life where he and his brother were free. They could do as they pleased, and nobody cared enough to tell them ‘no’. Castiel wanted it to always be this way.

He leant back into the black leather of the passenger seat, groaning at the comfort and luxury that surrounded him. It didn’t smell like stale smoke, and the seats were devoid of holes. He ran his fingers over the controls on the dashboard: heated seats, GPS, self-parking? Gabe tapped the driver’s side window and Castiel leaned over to unlatch the door, grinning.

“No way does this thing park itself,” Castiel chuckled as Gabriel fiddled to jump-start the car. He looked up from his ministrations with a wry grin.

“More money you have, Cassie, the less you have to do.”

Castiel shook his head, amused and a little jaded. He and Gabriel had nothing much to boast of. They had each other and that was about it.

The flashing blue lights in the rearview mirror didn’t mean anything to the distracted pair until the sirens started to wail.

“Shit!” Gabe exclaimed, clambering into the driver’s seat and forcing the naked ends of the wires together more fervently.

“Gabe, what do we- “

“Just shut the fuck up for a second,” Gabriel barked, as the wires sparked the engine to life. Without a moment’s hesitation, Gabriel threw the car into drive, the tires protesting loudly as he forced the gas pedal to the floor.

“No, Gabriel, we’re going to get caught!“ Castiel cried, eyes fixed on the wing mirror, watching the gap between them and the law diminish.

“We won’t,” Gabriel roared, mania tainting his laugh, “this baby’s ours, we’ll lose ‘em.”

Panic rose like bile in Castiel’s throat, and he swallowed against it desperately. He trusted Gabriel with everything, but this was so much more than stealing chocolate or toiletries. The patrol car was right on them.

Gabriel took a hard right, not even tapping the breaks. Castiel gripping tightly to the passenger door. Their pursuers met the maneuver with ease.

“Gabe, we’re not losing them! Stop the car!”

“When did you get to be such a pussy, Cas?” Gabriel teased, but it was all front. There was no joviality in his face. His hands gripped the wheel so tight his knuckles turned white. Castiel squinted against the blinding headlights, reflecting in the mirrors, filling the inside of the car from behind, like a flashlight to the face.

“Stop the car!” Castiel cried, “Stop!”

Gabriel threw the car into a sharp left. Suddenly, Castiel was thrown against the passenger door and the whole world spun: once, twice, three times. Gabriel’s mouth was open in a yell, but all Castiel could hear was the deafening sirens and the ringing in his ears.

It was a several hours of staring at metal bars and grasping at sleep from an unrelenting bench before Castiel finally met with a Public Defender. Castiel sat slumped in a plastic chair at the Dane County Police Station, his hands cuffed to the cold metal of the table in front of him. He closed his eyes, leaning forward enough so that he could rub at them with sore fingers. Everything ached. His head, his eyes, everything. He hadn’t slept in the holding cell. The darkness pressed around him, threatening to suffocate him, and a drunken cellmate next door spent the whole night cursing out the president and the poor bartender who had had to deal with him.

His arms ached from being dragged from the wreckage; the sight of Gabriel’s bloodied face had haunted every waking thought, red seeping into his straw-colored curls. Castiel recalled the paramedic on the scene was all too rough in discerning his bruised ribs, sprained wrist and smattering of plate-sized bruises already starting to bloom, before giving the officers the all-clear.

Gabriel had been stuffed into the back of a police car, his head wound wrapped haphazardly. Castiel heard the echoes of his own voice, like he’d left his body entirely; pitched with panic and desperation, “Where are you taking him? What’s going- Gabriel!”

Nobody had answered him.

Underneath the worry and paranoia there was an anger, ripe and ready for the plucking. Anger that he and Gabriel had been caught. They had always been untouchable, indestructible for as long as he could remember - now he just felt caged. The door to the holding room opened, and Castiel set his face hard, glaring up at the plump, black woman standing before him, her hair a neat crop of short, tight curls. She wore a sharp navy-blue pant suit, smart black bag and a saccharine smile. Castiel instantly hated her.

“Cas-teal? Is that how you pronounce it?” she asked, glancing at the file clutched in her hand.

He didn’t respond.

She cleared her throat, her smile intensifying, “My name is Missouri Moseley, I’m an attorney.”

She held a hand out to him. Castiel scoffed and turned his gaze to the table. Her fake smile, her stupid patronising voice, they prodded at his buttons, daring him to crack.

“Where’s my brother?” he ground out.

She huffed as she sat across from him, and Castiel grit his teeth. “Oh, honey, your brother is in a whole world a’ trouble. He’s goin’ to jail for sure.”

Rage fueled the fist that he slammed against the table. Missouri stared at him patiently. Castiel felt cornered, rabid. His hand ached.

“Honey, you need to calm yourself for this conversation, otherwise we just gon’ lock you up until you can act like an adult.”

“Fuck you,” Castiel yelled, standing so fast his chair crashed to the ground. The cuffs pulled at his wrists, so that he had to hunch over; his back protested painfully, and Castiel raged through it. She levelled him with a passive stare.

“Ooh, tough guy,” Missouri chuckled, “I ain’t afraid of you, young man. I’ve dealt with much worse. Now, sit your ass down so that I can help you.”

Feeling somewhat impotent with his hands cuffed to the table, Castiel waited for the officer by the door to right his chair, before sitting heavily once more.

“Alright. Good. Now, you can sulk all you want, honey, it don’t change the mess you’re in.”

“I’m not sulking,” Castiel spat.

“Sure, and I’m Meryl Streep.”

Castiel stared poison at the table top, his breathing deliberately slow as he tried to soothe the anger coursing through him, molten and ferocious, singeing his edges, baiting him to snap.

“Now, you’ll get off on a misdemeanour. You were just a passenger, and your brother’s testimony lines up with that… you bein’ a minor, I reckon that’ll be - “

“A slap on the wrist, then?” Castiel sneered.

“A final warning, Cas-teal.”

“It’s Cas-ti-el.”

Missouri smiled, her ridiculously large earrings jangling where they hung about her ample cheeks, “My apologies.”

“Fuck you,” Castiel mumbled glaring at a point past the attorney, bunching his swollen hands into fists. Missouri gave a languid roll of her dark eyes, sighed heavily. Her breath smelled of peppermint.

“I’d love to understand why you’re fightin’ me so hard, Castiel,” Missouri said, shaking her head, eyes turning sincere, “I’m on your side, I’m trying to help y- “

“You want to help?” Castiel bit, “Get Gabriel back.”

Missouri held her hands up, leaning back with a chuckle that shook her shoulders, “I ain’t his attorney. Gabriel got himself into this mess, and he dragged you with him.”

“He didn’t drag me anywhere,” Castiel said, his jaw aching from its tight clench. He and Gabriel did everything together, there was no sidekick, no Robin. Castiel didn’t stop his brother from stealing the car because whatever they were in, they were always in it together. Then again, nobody had ever stopped Gabriel doing anything.

Missouri spread her hands on the table, “Listen, I’m not fallin’ for your devil-may-care attitude. Some folks might, but I see right through you. You’re a good kid- “

“You don’t know anything about me,” Castiel snarled, “not a fucking thing.”

“Maybe you’re right, maybe I don’t,” Missouri sighed, leaning down to grab discharge papers from her bag, and spread them out on the table, clicking open a pen, “Sign here.”

Castiel gripped the pen awkwardly in his cuffed hand, scrawling his signature on the dotted line.

“I’m gon’ call your mother,” Missouri instructed, signing the papers with her own extravagant signature, “Stay here until she comes. Take care, Castiel,” she said, standing and sliding a card over to him, “My number, in case you need anythin’ else.”

Castiel shrugged his shoulders, leaving the card untouched on the table.

“Alright,” she sighed once more, standing up and straightening her suit jacket, “well, good meetin’ you. I wish you all the best.”

Castiel stared at her hand, extended towards him for the second time and lifted cold, unyielding eyes to meet hers.  _ I don’t need you _ , he screamed through his closed expression,  _ I don’t need anybody. _

Wiping her hand on her jacket, Missouri smiled once more, before leaving the room, nodding towards the guard by the door as she did.

Castiel sat alone in that cold white room, rage ringing in his ears. Castiel’s hands bunched into fists against the table, before he snatched up Missouri’s card and crushed it.

He could hear his mother’s voice careening off the corridor walls as he walked, sandwiched uncomfortably between two officers. Embarrassment flared hot in his cheeks when he saw her, face pressed right against the window that blocked the receptionist from the same such onslaught. Valerie Krushnic was dressed shabbily, plain grey t-shirt five sizes too big and hanging off her shoulder, an unlit cigarette dangling from her bottom lip, still blushed red with lipstick.

“You!” She screeched as soon as she saw Castiel, her cigarette lighter waving erratically in her fist “What the fuck do you take me for? Bend myself over backwards, and this is the fucking thanks I get!”

Castiel ignored her, making a beeline for the door and letting it fall closed on her as she followed.

“Hey! You look at me when I’m talking to you,” she yelled, pausing in her war-path to light her cigarette and take a deep inhale. Castiel carried on walking, until he felt a hard hand hit his shoulder and spin him around. His mother’s eyeliner was smudged almost to the rise of her cheekbones, and her breath was whiskey-sour.

“Look. At. Me.” She growled at him, stale smoke billowing from her lips, “I’m your fucking mother, I’ve been up all night, you will look at me.”

Castiel met her eyes hesitantly, keeping his breathing even. Her hair was rank, piled atop her head. Grease-laden strands of her fringe fell into her eyes, shaking with her erratic movements.

“Get. In. The fucking car.”

“I don’t think you should be dri- “

“Now, Castiel!”

Castiel jerked open the passenger door, desperately wanting to suggest they get a taxi or the bus. Valerie’s finger had always dangled tantalizingly close over the self-destruct button and it frightened him. He knew better than to speak up, knew better than to act like a ‘smart-ass’. So, he swallowed his fear, and stewed in his helplessness.

The silence that descended over the car was the oppressive kind, the kind that made you feel like you couldn’t breathe. Castiel watched the city drift past the passenger window, the silence buzzing like white noise as he replayed the last night over and over. Gabriel. Would he ever see his brother again?

The car screeched to a halt outside the delipidated fence that surrounded the Krushnic family home. The whole vehicle shook as Castiel’s mother slammed the door shut, stalking to the front door and shoving herself through.  Castiel followed, dejected.

“Get to your room,” Valerie barked, throwing her keys on the ground, she stormed farther into the living room and grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the coffee table, taking a long swig, free hand rubbing at the tension in her forehead. Marv, her live-in boyfriend, sat sprawled in the armchair, the TV roaring the latest football scores. Castiel couldn’t be here. Not while Gabriel was facing jail time. He couldn’t stay here and be the only person who cared.

“I’m going out,” Castiel mumbled, with no destination in mind, so long as it was away.

“I don’t think so, sonny,” Marv threatened darkly, not breaking his eye-contact with the TV. “You apologize to your mom, she’s sat here tearing her hair out all night.”

“Doubt it,” Castiel scoffed, watching his mom brace herself against the kitchen counter, staring into the stain-riddled surface as if he and Marv weren’t even there.

Marv dragged his eyes from the screen and hauled himself up, pointing a finger toward Castiel and moving past his mother, standing stock still, gripping the neck of that whiskey so hard her knuckles were a bright white.

“The fuck did you just say? She is your mother an- “

“Shut the fuck up, Marv, seriously,” Castiel cut in, “this isn’t your house, that isn’t your chair, I am not your son. You have no power here, and you cannot tell me what to do.” Castiel tore his jacket from the hook by the door and shrugged into it. He was vaguely aware of his mother’s voice, raised and breaking, but that anger was back, boiling in his veins, righteous and white hot, screaming this isn’t fair.

“Get the fuck out of my house,” his mother's words finally registered. Castiel stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

“Haven’t been back since,” Castiel concluded, the shelter’s nighttime noises rushing back to his ears, Claire’s hand pressing into his, just shy of the fresh bruising. He felt cleansed, like exorcising a demon from its perch on his shoulder.

Claire had been silent throughout the entire account, but it didn’t really matter to Castiel if she’d heard it or not. He had started to fall asleep himself, eyelids heavy and painful, when she finally spoke.

“You should go home, Cas.”

He stiffened, pulled his hand away, and stared hard at the bottom of her bed, “Are you serious?”

Claire leaned over her bunk, her face tinged with a concerned frown, “Yeah. You should go back.”

Castiel fell silent, shaking his head, his fingers twisting together at the memories of Marv, his mother’s most recent mistake. He could almost smell the overwhelming stench of Marv’s unwashed pepper grey hair that sat in stiff curls on top of his head. His perpetual sour breath. Castiel could see him slouched in that easy chair with the blood stain where he’d lost his first tooth. His dad’s chair. He heard Marv’s whispers as he lay there with Claire in the dark.

_ “Your momma told me just what you are, and it makes me sick. You know it’s wrong, don’t you? Against the good Lord. Sure, as hell won’t be tolerated in this house neither.” _

Castiel had argued that there was a whole world of things that were against the good Lord; beating a minor, beating a partner, drinking yourself into a coma… things that, surely, mattered far more than Castiel’s homosexuality.

His mother had found out the summer before ninth grade. He remembered it all so clearly; Alfie’s wide blue eyes, his flushed cheeks and his breathlessness when Castiel had first kissed him. They’d been alone behind Alfie’s closed bedroom door, the summer breeze puffing the curtains in and away from the open window. Alfie’s mother had found them. She’d come to complain about draft. Castiel’s mother picked him up quick after that, and Alfie never spoke to him again.

Marv had always been dismissive of him, even violent if Gabriel wasn’t around to stop it. Castiel had never really hit back until...

“Alright, I didn’t just walk out that night…” Castiel admitted, “My mom kicked me out.”

He told Claire everything from that night, the truth of it. How he hadn’t seen Marv’s punch coming, the sting of it connecting square with Castiel’s jaw, knocking him momentarily off-balance. Castiel’s reaction had been quick, crushing Marv’s nose beneath his knuckles with a savage delight. His mother had been screaming, but Castiel heard nothing but the rage ringing in his ears. It wasn’t fair. He’d broken the coffee table, barreling Marv into it with a desperate cry, pummeling his fists into Marv’s pudgy face over and over until his knuckles were red hot with agony.

His mother had been furious, kicked him out without hesitation. Castiel hadn’t reacted, not at first. Just stood staring at the broken man beneath him, the broken table. There had been blood on his knuckles, he remembered the itch of it as it started to dry.

Claire’s eyes widened, her face reddening from hanging upside down. She slunk down the ladder, settling on his bed with a heavy sigh, “What I wouldn’t give to have another argument with my mom.”

“Don’t do that.”

Claire shrugged, “I’m just saying, who are you to decide how she feels? How do you know that she doesn’t care?”

Castiel stared at the twist of his hands, “You don’t know her,” he mumbled.

“How do you know she isn’t waiting for you?”

Castiel dragged a hand down his face, “Because I already went back once.”

Her tone softened as she leaned forward, face full of hope for a happy ending, “And?”

Castiel shrugged, “And nothing.”

It really had been nothing. He’d let go of his pride, given in. He’d wanted his bed, the familiar smell of home; cigarette smoke, mixed with the peat of a whiskey bottle and hamburger helper from the microwave. Lights had been on in the windows, and he’d felt somewhat indignant, that life had just gone on without him.

He stared at the beat-up front door, the weeds crawling across the knee-high grass of the front yard, torn by indecision.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Marv had growled from the doorway, cradling his usual glass, dressing gown open to reveal his boxer shorts. His nose, Castiel had been smug to see was bent out of shape, lending him a gargoyle-like appearance. Castiel had closed his eyes and took a deep breath, ran a hand over his face, flinching as his touch reached his jaw, “I don’t know what I’m… I- “

“You better find somewhere better to be, Castiel,” Marv had warned, dialing 911 on his phone and showing Castiel the screen, “I mean it.”

Castiel had thrown his hands in the air, exasperated. It was his  _ home. _ Marv had had no right

Marv’s face fell into a mock-pensive expression as he tapped his finger against his chin, “Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but your mom kicked you outta here, right?”

Street lights had blurred together, as Castiel stared angrily down the street, steeling himself for the shame, “Please, Marv- “

“Oh, so you do got manners,” Marv had sneered, “little late for ‘please’, son.”

Castiel had pleaded with him, hating the whine in his own voice.

Marv’s face had hardened, “Figure it out, Castiel, you ain’t a kid no more, ain’t that what you keep tellin’ us?”

The door slammed decisively, the sound of it echoing down the street.

The ping of a nearby phone shocked Castiel out of his memory, brought him back to the squeaky shelter mattress, back to Claire’s hand gripped tightly in his.

“Just do me a favor,” she said, her fingers tightening once before she let go, “ try one more time? Maybe your mom will be there.”

Castiel closed his eyes, pressing down with his fingers until lights began to dance behind his lids.

“Cas?”

He sighed, exhausted to his bones, “I’ll think about it.”

Claire smiled, “Thanks for telling me.”

Castiel scoffed, “Okay, piss off, you’re not allowed on my bunk.”

He kicked her gently and she tried to silence her burst of laughter behind her palm. A chorus of ‘Shh’ erupted from the darkness.

“Night, Cas,” she whispered, turning to scramble back up the ladder to her bunk.

“Night, kid.”

 


	3. Petunia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Tracks for Chapter:  
> Pick Me Apart - Active Bird Community  
> Take Care - Beach House  
> Who Are You? - Spring King  
> Dark - Siv Jakobsen  
> The Call - Ruu Campbell

Jostling blankets and murmured conversations woke Castiel the next morning, sunlight filtering through the uncovered windows. He patted under his pillow for his phone, which lay between the sheets, checked his pocket for his wallet, still light as a feather against his leg. He yawned and stretched, looking blearily about him. There was a note on his pillow, scrawled on the back of a McDonald’s receipt.

_ Keep in touch, Cassie! _

_ Claire x _

Her number was written beneath, and Castiel smiled sadly. He hoped he would see her again, though not knowing when was difficult to accept. He opened his phone to text her his number only to find she had beaten him to it:

_ Yeah, 1234 is not a good password, Cas. _

He used his clothing token for some new underwear, socks and a shirt that didn’t smell like sweat. Next, he retrieved the final postage stamp from his shoe and collected his backpack from the locker room, hesitantly returning the wave from the lady at the front desk. The sun streamed warm on the street, and he turned his face into it, let it warm his cheeks, his hands. He reached into his pockets and ate one of the snack packs he’d stolen yesterday, nuts, raisins and little sugar-coated chocolate pieces as he walked about town, dipping into various shops, looking for an easy steal.

He stopped by the library to print off several copies of his resume, mostly just blank paper, hopelessly devoid of experience or qualifications. Still, he made his way through all the stores on the first floor of the mall. His resumes were taken with patient smiles, but Castiel knew, with heart-stopping certainty, his contribution would simply be added to an ever-growing pile in the back office, left to gather dust.

In his experience as a runaway, there were a few places where the world offered salvation on a plate. Things he had taken for granted: food that didn’t taste like cardboard, showers that didn’t leave him shivering, rooms without drafts sneaking their fingers beneath the door. One such place Castiel treated himself was the gym on the other side of the city, where the showers had built-in soap dispensers and seemingly unlimited hot water with pressure that worked at his aching muscles like so many deft fingers. And the kids that worked the front gate didn’t mind, or seem to care about him strolling through, unchecked, if he looked like he belonged.

It took him the better part of the day, this weekly ritual, but it made him feel a little more human, which had to count for something. He’d be cutting it fine for registration that night, but it was worth the risk. It was almost 4:30 by the time he stepped under the water and sighed in relief. He considered Claire’s note and her advice from the previous night. Could he really go home? Would his mom apologise, be happy to see him? Maybe Marv left after their fight, or maybe that was too much to hope for. The idea of his mom alone in the house stopped his thoughts dead. He honestly had no idea if Marv and his mom loved each other or were simply, dangerously codependent. Settled.

Castiel had never been in love. He thought maybe he’d loved Alfie before he’d sealed that fate with a kiss, but after a month of absence, the fire had died altogether. He simply didn’t know what love looked like. All he had was what TV and movies gave him, but that was just a lot of kissing with seemingly unnecessary head movements, shouting and crying. Castiel didn’t want to be in love. Too much hassle. He was just fine on his own.

He scrubbed the soap from his hair and watched the suds slide from his bruise-mottled skin to pool at his feet. His life spiraling like water around the drain.

He stepped out into the summer evening air, setting off at a bruising pace, hoping against hope he’d be in time to grab a bed for the night. He chanced a look at the police station, just across the street. He always looked, couldn’t help it. It was one of the last places he’d seen his mom, it was hard not to be sentimental about it, no matter how firmly he’d written her off. Just as his eyes fell on the front door, it swung open and out rushed the very last person Castiel wanted to see.

He picked up his pace, almost running, and hoped she hadn’t seen him. He could hear footsteps behind him though, and then she called out to him.

“Piss off, Missouri,” he muttered. Her footsteps tapped evenly behind him, she clearly wasn’t giving up.

“Castiel,” she said, breathless, “just stop, would you?”

He stopped, reluctantly, his body sagging in defeat. She might have heard about his mom, or Gabriel.

“Thank you,” she puffed, “I ain’t quite what I used to be.”

Castiel stared at her, arms crossed, impatient to get to the shelter.

“You heading home? How’s your mom?” she asked, as if it was her business. Castiel’s eyes narrowed.

“I don’t know,” he said simply.

Her smile fell from her ample cheeks, “You don’t know if you’re headin’ home, or you don’t know how your mom is?”

Castiel shrugged, “Both.”

Missouri’s eyebrows furrowed, “We released you to your mom, where is she?”

“At home, I presume,” Castiel said, “I wouldn’t know.”

Missouri’s frown deepened, “Wait, where are you staying?”

“Here and there,” Castiel shrugged, glancing around him, any excuse to avoid that unbearable concern that fit snug against Missouri’s features.

She reached for him and Castiel flinched, stopping her hand before it made contact, “What do you mean, ‘here and there?’ Who’s lookin’ after you?”

Castiel gritted his teeth, “Me.”

Missouri put her hand to her cheek, “Oh, god dammit. Castiel, I’m sorry-”

“What for? You didn’t do anything- “

“Exactly! I thought you had some place to go. I should’a checked, I should have done something.”

Castiel scoffed, “I didn’t need your help then, I don’t need it now.”

“When are you gonna stop fightin’ me?” she said, her voice breaking, “You can continue bitin’ the hand that feeds you or you can grow the hell up and accept help when it’s offered to you.”

Castiel’s jaw jumped against his skin and he ground his teeth together tight, “I don’t need your help.”

“You got it all figured out then?” Missouri spread her hands, “You got a job? A home?”

Castiel stared hard at his feet, curled his hands deep into his pockets. She was right, he knew that, but he’d be damned if he was about to admit it. He felt small and he hated it, hated  _ her _ for it.

“Come back with me,” she said, her voice softer now, “I’m offerin’ you a way out, a chance to get this right.”

Castiel considered the street around him. The gathering dark, the growing likelihood of hunkering down in an alley tonight, shivering in nothing but the clothes on his back. There was a man on the corner, wrapped tight in a ratty old blanket, clinging to a damp cardboard sign, writing scrawled in bold black letters: ‘One random act of kindness.’

“I know you got somethin’ to prove,” Missouri said, shifting her bag higher on her little shoulder, “but you don’t have to prove it yet. And you ain’t gotta prove it to me, neither.”

He’d resisted for so long, tried to make it on his own. He’d run clean out of money and his scrappy resumes had brought him no job… no lucky break, no way out. He could bear to stay with Missouri for a few nights, couldn’t he? Some actual food and a few nights of proper sleep then be on his way again. His resistance frayed at the edges.

“A few nights,” he said quietly, unable to meet her eye, “just a few.”

Missouri smiled wide, squeezing his shoulder before finally letting her hand drop.

“Whatever you need, hon.”

Missouri lived in the unassuming town of Janesville, almost an hour’s drive from Madison. Castiel, with his backpack wedged between his feet in the blue carpeted footwell, watched the rows of neat little houses on neat little streets flit past the window that didn’t quite meet the door frame of Missouri’s Buick Estate Wagon, the warm night air rushing through the gap in a gentle roar. Missouri spoke quietly on speaker phone, making arrangements for him. Her voice, gentle and soft, made Castiel’s eyes droop.

They pulled up outside of a dainty house, dormers in the front and neatly manicured hedges pressing against the ground floor windows. Missouri took the steps one at a time, and lead Castiel inside. There were shoes of differing sizes bundled together in a box by the front door.

“So, lounge is just through to the left, straight on is the kitchen… bathroom is upstairs. Is there anything you need? Some food? The boys might’ve left somethin’, damn locusts.”

He squinted through tired eyes at the hallway, the coat rack that housed several sets of keys, and a collection of coats, wanting anything else to look at instead of the pity in Missouri’s eyes. Castiel shook his head despite the emptiness in his stomach, exhausted beyond all belief. His legs felt heavy as lead as he followed Missouri into the lounge. A sofa bed was set up by the window, an old sleeping bag draped over the mattress and a small nest of throw pillows at one end.

“I hope it’s comfortable enough,” Missouri smiled, “I’ll let you rest, huh? I can take you to your mom’s in the morning, see if we can’t get this whole mess sorted out.”

Castiel nodded and watched her leave. His mind fell silent as he slung his backpack over the armchair, and all but fell into the bed, too tired to toe off his shoes. His sleep was instantaneous, and free of dreams.

The room Castiel awoke in seemed entirely changed in the morning light, drifting in through the flowery curtains. The walls were covered in strange artwork, tarot cards and photos of powerful-looking women. Crystals decorated almost every flat surface. A bookcase lay at the far end of the room, and as Castiel squinted at their spines, he found the majority concerned mystic arts: palmistry, divination, astrology. Castiel frowned, looking above him to see bunches of herbs and knick-knacks hanging from the ceiling on delicate threads.

Castiel was vaguely aware of voices coming from the kitchen. Yawning and stretching, he tentatively made his way to the connecting wall, avoiding the gaping archway between the rooms, and pressed his ear against it to listen.

“Hey,” came a voice behind him. Castiel started, turning quickly to see a young boy, no more than fourteen, standing in the doorway. His shaggy brown hair fell into his eyes, and his hands and feet were too big, goofy, the way you could tell a puppy was going to grow big because their paws looked simply ridiculous on their tiny body.

“Missouri told me to give you this. I’m Sam,” in his hand, was a large mug of black coffee and Castiel eyed it suspiciously.

“Thanks,” Castiel said, moving back over to the bed and making it, “but I should get going.”

“Have some breakfast first,” Missouri said, appearing in the archway, her voice concerned and firm. Castiel cringed away from that sound. He didn’t  _ want _ to need her help.

“No, really- “

“I got some eggs on the- “

“I’m just goin- “

“Stay- “

“Shut up!” Castiel roared, reveling in the stunned silence that met him, irritation exploding between his lungs, “I’m not a kid. I don’t need you, or your eggs, I’m outta here.”

“Oh, you are, are you?” Missouri challenged with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Castiel bit out, grabbing his backpack where he’d slung it over the plush armchair in the corner, “I am.” He met no obstacle on his way to the door, but he could feel their eyes watching him as he slammed the front door closed. He was only a few steps from the house when he heard the door wrenched open again.

“Hey!”

Castiel kept on walking, gritting his teeth and wishing himself away from this dead-end town. From these dead-end people.

“Hey! Asshole!”

Castiel rolled his eyes; it wasn’t a voice he recognised, but he knew the tone well enough. A strong hand landed on his arm, gripping tight and spinning him around. He came face to face with a boy of a similar age to him: broad shouldered, green eyes fierce, mouth set in a grim line.

“I’m talkin’ to you,” the boy growled, “where d’you get off talkin’ to Missouri like that?”

Castiel let his nonchalance ring loud and clear in his expression before turning back around. He didn’t get far before he was whirled around again.

“Think you’re some tough guy, huh?” the boy spat, “Think you’re above basic manners?”

Castiel crossed his arms over his chest before looking the boy up and down, sneer writ in stone across his features, the disdain in his voice rehearsed, easy, “Pot, kettle, black.”

Castiel could see the boy about to lunge, but Missouri got there first, holding him firmly by the shoulders, “That’s enough, Dean.”

“Fuck that, Missouri!” Dean cried, furious eyes burning into Castiel’s own, placid and bored, “You put him up for the night, do all you can, and you get nothing? No ‘thanks’, no nothin’! He doesn’t deserve your help.”

Castiel raised his eyebrows, “Finished?”

Dean shrugged Missouri’s hands from his shoulders, shoving an accusatory finger under Castiel’s nose, “Don’t even think of steppin’ foot in that house again, you hear me? I swear to _ hell  _ you’ll regret it.”

“Oh, I can promise I won’t be back,” Castiel said, casually inspecting his nails, a trick he’d seen Gabriel use a thousand times against a riled-up rival, “don’t you worry, Dean.”

“Asshole,” Dean muttered, before stalking back into the house, scooping Sam back inside, before letting the door slam shut.

Missouri stood, silently staring at his profile. Castiel knew she was expecting something from him; an apology, a thank you, any sort of acknowledgement at all of what she had done for him last night. But Castiel refused to break.

“So, you gonna walk to Madison?” Missouri finally said, crossing her arms, displeasure colouring her features.

“I guess,” Castiel mumbled, “haven’t got any other choice, so...”

“You know where you’re going?”

He squared his jaw, looped his shoulders back, “Of course I do.” He didn’t.

“You know it’s about half a day’s walk, at least right? We’re talkin’ fourteen hours or so. I said I’d take you.”

Castiel’s fists clenched against his humiliation. He didn’t want to be treated this way, didn’t want to depend on her. He said nothing in return, instead stared out across the road and willed himself to think of some other way of getting home. Missouri, irritatingly, seemed happy to say nothing at all, hovering by his elbow patiently.

She touched his shoulder gently, a touch he shrugged off immediately with an offended expression. Missouri sighed heavily, “I’ll get my keys.”

Missouri didn’t seem to mind the stony silence that blanketed the car as they drove through Madison. Castiel did. He wished time to speed up, knowing he’d created this, knowing that if he wanted it gone, he’d have some clearing up to do. But he didn’t want to apologise. So, he didn’t. Instead, he let the air sour, fill his lungs, weigh down his heart, set his jaw in a tight line until it began to ache.

He broke the silence only to direct Missouri to his front door and he did so in almost inaudible mumbles. Missouri cut the engine, sinking back in her seat with a hand dragged down her face, turning to inspect the house out the window, “This is you, huh?”

Castiel nodded, safety belt already unbuckled and foot out the door. He knew what he should say but he sealed his lips shut.

“I gotta get to work but… do you want me to wait?” Missouri asked as Castiel climbed out of the car. He shut the door without answering.

If he felt any guilt over his actions, it all disappeared the moment Castiel set foot in the house. He stood in the doorway, the silence settling heavy over him like dust over an abandoned bed. It was too quiet. Like nobody was home. His mother was _ always  _ home. Castiel took a few tentative steps inside, listening to the silence as it seeped into his bones heavy with dread. Forgetting about everything except the ringing in his ears, he tore up the stairs, three at a time. He burst into his mother’s room, empty. Throwing open the drawers, the doors to her wardrobe, coat hangers click-clacking together in protest.

All gone. His mother’s things.

Castiel stared long and hard at the empty room, a crushing kind of acceptance settling over him.

“Castiel?” Missouri’s voice was hesitant behind him.  “What’s happened? Where is everyone?”

Castiel scoffed, dragging a hand across his mouth, “She’s gone.”

He heard Missouri step into the room, “I found this on the kitchen counter downstairs.” Her voice was quiet, full of pity, and it made Castiel’s stomach roll in nausea. She handed him a Biggerson’s napkin, words scrawled messily in black ink:

_ It’s for the best, Castiel. _

_ I’m sorry. _

_ Love you always, _

_ Mom. _

Castiel read the note over and over until the words jumbled and bled into one another. He screwed up the napkin in his fist and bit back the words crawling hot up his throat. And somehow, it all felt so sickeningly inevitable. And somehow, after a few deep breaths, Castiel had convinced himself that he didn’t care.

“Castiel, I- “Missouri hedged, treading the eggshells so delicately placed at his feet. He laughed, humourless and wounded. He watched Missouri flinch at the sound.

“This is… I’ll find her, Castiel,” she promised, but it rang hollow. He hadn’t believed promises in a long time. Staring at his mother’s bedroom, Castiel’s strength seeped from his body. He barely resisted as Missouri pulled at him gently.

“I’ll call the office. I’m taking you back to Janesville.”

Missouri retreated downstairs, already talking on the phone by the time she hit the first-floor landing. The walls were thin in this small house.

Castiel drifted into his bedroom, for all the world like a ghost, a spectre. The room was not much bigger than a closet, but had been his since he was a child. He’d shared Gabriel’s room before that. Before it was his bedroom, this room had been a storage space, his father’s old office before that. But all of it, the narrow bed pressed against the window, the posters he’d cut out from stolen magazines plastered to his wall with yellowing tape, the overflowing garbage can, it had all been  _ his. _ Now it felt foreign. Like it belonged to someone else.

He pulled some clothes from the dresser drawers, underwear and socks, a few shirts, another pair of jeans, stuffing them into his backpack until it bulged. He picked up a printed photograph Gabriel had given him for his birthday last year. The two of them smiled up at him where Castiel stood, trembling in their empty house. They’d taken a trip to explore the fields and dense forests two hours’ drive out of the city. Having skipped school that day, for no reason. Gabriel was spontaneous like that. Almost manic. They ate chips and sang too loud, and it was one of Castiel’s happiest days.

Mom was furious when they got home.

He slipped the photograph carefully into a separate pocket of his backpack.

Wandering into the cramped bathroom, decked out entirely in avocado green: bathtub, sink and toilet, Castiel grabbed his toothbrush and watched his reflection.

His eyes were dead as they stared back.

Castiel turned away, heading down the hall to Gabriel’s room, picking up the picture of Gabriel and their older brother Michael, taken in the backyard, both boys in striped t-shirts, arms slung around each other. Gabriel had loved that photo, loved his brother with all his heart. Castiel was still in diapers when Michael died. Castiel stowed the photo away in his bag; he figured Gabriel would want it, when they saw one another again.

Gabe always told Castiel how much he looked like Michael; they were both dark, brooding, compared to Gabriel’s sunny disposition, with his light brown hair and honey-colored eyes. Castiel remembered nothing about Michael, but in photographs he was always serious for a six-year-old. Castiel sat on the blow-up mattress that took up most of the floor, and stared out of the window at the sky, the clouds skidding over the deep blue. He wondered if there was any untangling him from this mess. He wondered where Gabriel was; if he was also staring at the sky.

Missouri found him there, silent and still, and loaded him back into her car.

Missouri’s car radio was only stuck on one channel, insipid pop music crackling from the speakers. Castiel bit at the skin around his nails as he stared at Madison, disappearing over the horizon in the side mirror. Neither of them said a word.

If he thought Dean was furious that morning, Castiel wasn’t at all prepared for what greeted him as he stepped over the threshold of Missouri’s home for the second time.

“I thought I told you to get lost,” Dean growled before turning his attention back to Missouri, “What’s he doing here?”

Missouri’s hands rested on her hips, and though he couldn’t see her face, Castiel was willing to bet she was levelling Dean with a stare that only middle-aged women could master.

“Whose house is this?” she challenged.

Dean shrunk back slightly, “Yours.”

“That’s right, and whose rules?”

“Yours,” Dean intoned to his shoes.

“Correct. Castiel is staying for a while, and you,” she pushed his shoulder playfully, “are gonna play nice.”

She turned around to Castiel, “You, too. Behave, both of you.”

Castiel clutched tight to the straps of his backpack, bouncing awkwardly on the balls of his feet.

“Is that clear?” Missouri demanded, her voice uncompromising.

“Yes, ma’am,” Dean murmured, turning and heading upstairs.

Castiel dragged a hand through his hair, Missouri’s gaze weighing heavily on his shoulders until he finally relented, “Crystal.”

“Thank you,” she smiled, “Now come on in, take your shoes off, and follow me.”

Castiel flinched at a loud bang from upstairs. Missouri smiled.

“Don’t worry about him,” she laughed, “he’s a big ol’ softy.”

“Not my biggest fan though.”

“Well, no, but can you blame him?” Castiel narrowed his eyes at her, but that only made her laugh harder. “Oh, boy, do I got my work cut out with you.”

Castiel followed her into a cramped kitchen covered in house plants and jars of various foodstuffs lined up along the open-faced cupboards. There was a large chalkboard on the back wall with schedules scrawled messily across its surface. Missouri pointed to a stool pushed against the island.

“Please, sit.”

Castiel took in the room as he sat.

“You like it?” Missouri smiled, “Heart of the house.”

Castiel smiled, half-hearted and twiddled his thumbs in his lap.

“Now, some house rules. You don’t go anywhere without telling me-”

Castiel opened his mouth to protest, to tell her that there was nowhere for him to go, but Missouri held a finger in the air to silence him. “Second, when I ask you to do somethin’, you do it. I don’t want any childish back-talk. I’m too old and too tired for that shit. Third, you’re always home and safe by eleven. If I don’t know where you are after then, expect a whole heap of trouble.”

Castiel rolled his eyes, “I won’t be any trouble.”

Missouri spread her hands, “I don’t know, hon, school’s still out, you’ll have to find some way to entertain yourself.”

Castiel shrugged, “I’ll think of something.”

Missouri nodded, “I’m sure. Just be back by eleven, okay?” Castiel had no intention of following Missouri’s rules, but he nodded his assent anyway. “Great. You hungry?”

Castiel shook his head just as his stomach betrayed him with a loud grumble. Missouri raised an eyebrow.

“I’ll fix you up a sandwich.”


	4. Statice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Tracks for Chapter:  
> So They Say - Rukhsana Merrise  
> On The Frame - Beta Radio  
> Sexfaldur - Amiina  
> The Wisp Sings - Winter Aid  
> Teach Me How To Dance With You - Causes

Missouri Mosley was known around town as something of a psychic; she chalked it up to a strong intuition and a keen eye for bullshit. Missouri always put stock in her gut instincts. After working briefly as a youth advocate in her hometown she began to stagnate, something deep inside her whispered,  _ this isn’t it _ . She wanted something more.  With encouragement from her soul sisters in the Tarot community, Missouri worked her way through the LSAT, Juris Doctor, and the Wisconsin State Bar Exam. She had been a state-appointed attorney for at-risk youth for nearly fifteen years and was very good at her job.

The day Castiel and Valerie Krushnic blew through the Madison police station, Missouri had watched the whole ugly scene unfold from the safety of her office. She’d felt a shift, that discomfort, deep in her soul, that told her that boy would need her soon. And now, here they were.

Usually on her weekends off, Missouri liked to put her feet up with a cup of yarrow tea or give her close friends a reading or two. That Saturday, however, she headed out into the city. There was unfinished business there, something she felt it was her duty to put right, as seemingly the only responsible adult present in the lives of, now three, teenage boys who were not her own. Castiel standing all alone in that empty, decrepit house had haunted her dreams all night. She had to fix it.

There was a barbed-ness to Castiel, a ferocious defense coupled with a quick tongue and strong fists. Like a caged animal, a powerful creature crammed into a body ten sizes too small. And she felt for him. He wasn’t wounded by his enemies; far worse, he was wounded by those he trusted and loved most. It was difficult to relate, to truly understand that pain. Her parents had been everything a child deserved, growing up. The worst thing she could remember dealing with was a week of bullying when her mother convinced her that her natural curls were beautiful. More painful was the chemical straightening she’d put herself through just to make it stop. Dean, Sam, Castiel, they all had so much to handle, so much pain, much more than any adult could manage. No wonder Castiel was spiraling.

She saw behind his impenetrable defense a small boy, cowered in the corner, crying into the crook of his elbow and begging for it to stop. Despite their turbulent, albeit brief history, she had made up her mind. She would try one more time to get him back with his family, to find his mother. She didn’t want to excuse his behaviour towards her, she wouldn’t dream of it, but she understood it. And damn it, she cared.

Missouri leaned against the worn leather wheel singing quietly to herself along with the crackly radio, as she mimicked the turns she had taken with Castiel the day before. The roads that weaved before her looked sad, disused, like a ghost town, which was strange given she was moments from the bustling heart of the city.

The Krushnic house loomed before her with its overgrown front lawn, the chipped paint of the front door, the metal chain-link fence whose loose fingers clung to her pants as she opened the gate. The wire scratched against her skin and she hissed. If she didn’t know better, she’d say the house was warning her, turning her away. But she pressed on to the front door with the grimy glass window at the top and knocked decisively.

She heard the clink of bottles from the other side of the door, and she braced herself with a deep breath. The man who opened the door stank of a brewery. Missouri checked her watch; half-past eight. She smiled and extended a hand, which the man looked at suspiciously.

“Good morning, my name is Missour-”

“Get off my property,” the man growled, his eyes hazy and his mouth grim.

“I was wondering,” Missouri strengthened her tone as she so often did when dealing with incompetent, disagreeable men, “if Mrs. Krushnic was home.”

The man had a peculiar laugh, like sandpaper scraped against a bitter throat, “You mean Valerie.”

“Valerie, alright, thank you. Is she-”

“She ain’t here.”

“I see,” Missouri tented her fingers, “it’s just that I-”

“Listen, lady, I told you to get off my property, I mean it, I’ll call the cops,” the man slurred. Missouri closed her eyes and counted to ten.

“Would you please tell me where she is?” she asked evenly, “I’m here on behalf of her son.”

“Gabe?”

“N-no, he’s in… I’m talking about Cas-”

“Castiel?” The man threw his head back with another hacking laugh, “Fuck me, what’s he done this time?”

Missouri bit back a few choice words and cleared her throat, “Am I correct in assuming that you don’t know where Valerie is?”

The man’s face turned grim once more, his unruly brows burying his eyes, “I don’t know why that’s any of your business, lady. I know she don’t wanna see him. Nobody wants him here. Now get off my property or I'll call the cops.”

The door slammed, billowing a cloud of sour air. Missouri swallowed at the ache in her throat.

Missouri drove around the streets of Madison for a long time that morning trying to process what had happened. She knew about broken homes, specialised in them. She had seen cruelty, callousness, even brutality in all her years on the job. Despite all of it, all the horror and the pain, she tried to see the good in everyone she met. Castiel had been left with nothing. No explanation. There was no compassion in that house, only pain. It seeped through the walls like a poison fog. She saw nothing good in the man she’d just met, and that was enough to spin her out. She needed time to get her head together before facing Castiel again. She didn’t know if telling Castiel where she’d been, what she’d learned, was really a good idea. Castiel was an angry, confused and bitter young man, and nobody was standing up to fix it. Including himself.

She parked at the edge of Lake Monona and sat on the stony shore, staring at the gently rolling water. The breeze calmed her, the birds sang to her, and she felt the discomfort of the earlier conversation crystallise into something firmer. She was the only one who could, or indeed would, help that poor boy now. What choice did she have? She’d never forgive herself if she gave up on him, sent him into the system to await his eighteenth birthday only to be chucked out again. Back to square one, just another year older.

By the time she reached into her purse for her phone, she was set in her decision: she would do whatever it took to find Castiel’s mother, and keep him from harm, help him become the man he could so easily be. It wouldn’t take much, she reasoned, Castiel was already so intelligent and resourceful. He just needed someone to love him, to understand him. He needed good people to believe in him.

She called a close colleague, a man she’d worked with for a number of years when she first joined the force. He picked up with the promptness that spoke of his entire personality.

“Henriksen.”

“Vic, it’s Missouri,” she said, “I need your help.”

Victor kept her on the line throughout his search, updated her in sharp, no-nonsense sentences on his life and work, but it took him no more than ten minutes to find the answers Missouri needed. She shook her head with a chuckle, astounded, as always, by his prowess.

“Valerie Krushnic checked herself into rehab. Capitol Lakes, just a few nights ago.”

Missouri loved when her job was easy, “You have a number for them?”

Missouri put off calling Valerie for the moment, deciding instead on Garth, Gabriel’s attorney. She knew it wasn’t really her business to investigate, but for Castiel… he needed to know what would happen to his brother. She pushed professionalism aside and dialed.

“Garth Fitzgerald-the-fourth! How can I help you this fine day?” Garth answered, all sing-song and sunshine.

“Hey, Garth-”

“Missouri! How’s it going?”

Garth started out in Madison a few years ago, but he’d never lost that puppy-like excitement of a lawyer first starting out. His energy was as infectious as it was exhausting.

Missouri watched the undulating waters hiss at the shore, lapping the same flat pebbles each time, as Garth complained of the backlog at County delaying the court date for Gabriel. Missouri almost wished she hadn’t asked how Garth’s visitations had gone, as he fell uncharacteristically silent for a few painful moments before answering, “Looked like he’d seen better days. There’s been some reports, trouble with cellmates.”

Missouri picked up a large pebble, it sat heavy in her palm as she considered out loud the possibility of taking Castiel to go and visit. Garth’s response was sympathetic but negative all the same. Missouri hurled the pebble into the lake, watching the ripples play on its glassy surface. She had been hoping to bring Castiel some good news.

Missouri sent a silent curse to the sky, “Okay, can you do me a favor? Let me know when his court date is announced?”

“Sure, you’ll be the… like, second person I tell,” Garth agreed, “Promise.”

“Thank you, Garth,” she said, hanging up with a fond smile.

Missouri sat on that shoreline, staring at the number for Capitol Lakes on the screen, unable to dial. Last time she’d seen Valerie, the woman was raging hurricane, furious and unrelenting. There was something altogether chaotic about her. The heat of the day drove her back into her car and there, settled comfortably behind the wheel whose cover had worn away beneath her hands, she plucked the courage to call. After the disturbingly sunny voice of the receptionist, Valerie’s own was dull, like rusted metal. Missouri spoke altogether more hurried than she’d planned, but though Valerie was terse, she was cooperative. Appalled to hear that Marv had turned Castiel away, desperate to know about Gabriel’s court date, and entirely willing to sign whatever forms needed to be signed to place Castiel in Missouri’s custody.

There was a beat, a moment when Missouri was ready to celebrate; she knew where Castiel’s mother was, was able to give him the second chance he desperately needed, but it was only a moment. There was a desperate sadness in Valerie’s voice, like the words that lay on her tongue were the very last things in the world she wanted to say.

“Just… please don’t tell them I’m here?” she pleaded.

Missouri cocked an eyebrow, “Why?”

“It’s just… he don’t need me right now, neither of those poor sods do. I don’t want them worryin’ about me.” Missouri was struck dumb; how could Valerie think so low of herself? At Missouri’s silence, Valerie’s voice rose, “You gotta promise me-”

“Alright, alright, I promise,” Missouri sighed, resting her forehead against the comforting leather of the steering wheel, “you take care of yourself now, y’hear?”

Castiel was curled in Missouri’s favourite armchair when she finally came home. The light from his phone illuminated his face. “Hey,” she called, “where are the boys?”

Castiel shrugged, laid his phone on the coffee table.

“So, listen,” she said, unsure of how to broach the subject, “I need to talk to you.”  Castiel sighed, moving towards his bag and stuffing his meagre belongings inside. “No, no, honey,” she rushed, “not that. Stop doin’ that.”

Castiel’s eyes, cold and unyielding, gave something then, just a flash. Missouri couldn’t be certain of what it was she had seen, but it was enough to solidify her decision: she was doing the right thing here.

“I went to Madison today, to your old house” she said, “met a man, didn’t catch his name.”

Castiel scoffed as he sat back down, “Marv.”

“I went to see if I could help find your mom and all, but he wasn’t so helpful.”

“Sounds about right,” said Castiel.

“I got some news about Gabriel, today, too.”

Castiel’s guard slipped, just a little, “And?”

Missouri winced, “There’s no court date in sight yet. There’s a backlog down at County, but… he’s in good hands.”  Castiel’s face fell and guilt rose like molten rock inside her. She wished, just once, she could give him some good news.

“Do you know how he’s doing at least?”

Missouri bit her lip, “Garth says he’s been havin’ some trouble-”

Castiel shot to his feet and began pacing, “What kind of trouble? I want to see him.”

Missouri spread her hands, “Hon, I know that’s what you think you need, but I really think-”

“It would be good for me? What, to stay away from him?” Castiel snapped, “How the fuck would you know?”

“I know you think my opinions are good for nothing,” Missouri sighed, holding her hands up in defeat, “I’m just… thinkin’ of you right now. He’s gon’ be fine. If he’s anythin’ like you? He’s got nothin’ to worry about.”

Castiel sat heavily once more, dragging a hand through his messy dark hair, staring daggers at the floor.

“I just want you to worry about you for right now,” she said quietly, “get you back on your feet.” Castiel cocked an eyebrow as he looked at her. His only reaction to someone caring about him was confusion, and it broke her heart. Missouri sighed, “What I’m tryin’ to say is… you’re welcome to stay here.” She braced herself for the onslaught.

But Castiel just stared, perplexed, “I don-”

“You don’t need my help, Lord knows, Castiel, but I’m offering it all the same. Take it or leave it. Stay here and I can enroll you into Dean’s school, you’ll be safe, you get a fresh start. You can search for your mom from somewhere stable. Wouldn’t Gabriel prefer to hear his brother has got a roof over his head? A chance at graduating?”

Castiel rubbed a hand over his face, pressing his fingers deep into his closed eyes. In that moment he looked far older, like he bore an unbearable weight. Missouri truly cared about him. She cared for everyone she ever met of course, she’d always been the maternal sort. Good with kids. Infertile women always were.

The child sat in front of her, it was more than care she felt. She wanted to protect him, as fiercely as she would protect the Winchester boys. She wanted to save him and keep him saved.

She waited patiently for his answer. If her intuition was worth its salt, she knew this was a tricky decision, a matter of pride. She could almost see him turning the idea over and over in his mind.

“I have conditions,” he said, eventually, blue eyes finally meeting hers.

“Within reason,” Missouri replied.

“Claire, she was … a friend at the shelter, I want to know she’s safe.”

Missouri smiled, taken aback; there was that softness. “Of course,” she said, “You got a number for her?” A small nod was all the response she needed. Her face broke into a grin and she was almost certain there was just the barest hint of a smile on his lips.

A week had passed since Missouri had welcomed Castiel into her home. According to the text updates she got from Sam almost daily while she was at work, the boys seemed to have come to a shaky truce. She could at least go to work knowing she wouldn’t return to bruised knuckles and bloody faces, or find that Castiel had run again, so she called that a small victory.

Easing out of her Buick Estate Wagon, Missouri clutched at her bag as she made her way through the revolving doors of Capitol Lakes Rehabilitation Centre. The lobby was clean and sharp, white walls, a vase of sunflowers sitting prettily on the front desk. Missouri signed herself in, received her Visitor badge and was escorted outside. Valerie Krushnic was waiting there for her, sitting out the back among the sprawling gardens. Tall hedges and bright flowers as far as the eye could see. She was perched delicately on a bench in the dappled shade of a large chestnut tree.

Missouri was left alone with her, the receptionist leaving with a companionable wave. Missouri approached hesitantly, peering around to try and get into Valerie’s line of sight so as not to surprise her. Valerie was staring at the horizon, opaque, dark circles pressed beneath her eyes. She refocused to Missouri with a wan smile. Her face was so pale, almost green, a sickly sheen touching at her forehead.

“Valerie, hi,” Missouri grinned, professional mask set firmly in place, moving to sit beside her on the bench, “how are you?”

Valerie shrugged, her distant, haunted expression turning down to her shaking hands, “Tryin’ to think up reasons to live.”

Missouri glanced around for members of staff as her heart plummeted. She shouldn’t have been surprised; Valerie was in withdrawal. There were friendly uniformed people wandering around slowly everywhere she looked, waving to or talking with patients, or raising their faces to the late summer sunshine. She wondered how any of them would cope if Valerie fell into crisis.

“Honey,” Missouri said, wanting to reach out and soothe, but stopping herself at the last moment, “you’re doing a brave thing. The first step is always the hardest.”

Valerie nodded with a bitter chuckle, “That’s what they tell me.”

Missouri watched as Valerie’s eyes danced around her bag, her voice nothing more than a hoarse whisper, “You got any?”

Missouri frowned, shudders flooding down her spine, “What, alcohol?” Valerie’s head whirled wildly, shushing Missouri frantically. Once she was sure nobody had heard them, Valerie gave a little nod. Missouri’s eyes turned stern, like they did when she was telling off the boys, “What do you take me for? That ain’t why I’m here. I ain’t… why would I bring that in here?”

Valerie’s shoulders slumped, “Sorry. It’s just… I feel like a shit’s _ shit. _ You know?”

“You will for a time,” Missouri soothed, heart softening, “but if you stick it out, there’s a happy ending for you. I have no doubt you’ll pull through.”

There  _ was  _ a shred of doubt, of course there was. All Missouri truly knew of Valerie was that she’d walked out on her kids. But there was hope. Hope for Castiel, that he would have a mother again, and Missouri cradled that hope with both hands.

“I had another son, you know,” Valerie said, voice breathy, almost as if talking to herself. Her fingers wound into the ends of her cardigan, hanging off her delicate shoulders as her eyes grew distant, softened with a memory, “Michael. He was so beautiful. My first. Such a little thing. The boys’ dad he…”

Missouri sat patiently, heart throbbing both for Valerie, and for Castiel, too. Another scar to bear.

They sat in silence for a time, before Valerie sighed, the sound full of pain, “You got the papers?” Missouri shook herself with a little huff before rifling through her handbag and handing the forms to Valerie to look over.  “Craig High, huh?” Valerie said, “He gonna be happy there?”

Missouri smiled, “I hope so.”

“He’s a good kid,” Valerie said, her voice quivering just a little, “despite everything.”

Missouri smiled and clicked open her pen, “So, I need you to read through the whole thing, and sign at the bottom of the page, there. I got your written permission, too, thank you for that.”

“S’no problem,” Valerie mumbled, leaning the pages against her skinny jean-clad legs as she signed. Her hair was washed, gathered back loosely to reveal her delicate neck. Her posture was apologetic, shoulders bunched together, knobby back bent in a graceful curl.

“I should thank you for takin’ care of him,” she said with a hesitant smile as she handed the papers back. Her hands were cold.  

Missouri took one, the bony little appendage almost lifeless between her warm palms. “Just concentrate on gettin’ yourself better once and for all, Valerie, y’hear? Do it for yourself and remember your boys. They need you.”

Valerie shook her head, “I need  _ them _ .”

“Has Marv come to see you at all?”

Valerie’s hand clenched between Missouri’s palms as she shook her head.  “Piece’a shit,” Valerie mumbled beneath her breath, mouth pulle grim, “he hit me the night I decided to come here. Should never’ve let him ‘round the boys.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why? You didn’t do it.”

“You’re better off without him,” Missouri said, giving Valerie’s hand another squeeze before letting it go.

“Feels lonely,” Valerie chuckled humorlessly, “My house is gonna be so empty when I get back.”

Missouri hummed quietly, remembering the Krushnic’s worn-out house with its front lawn choked with weeds as tall as her hips. “Maybe you don’t have to go back.”

Valerie turned wide eyes towards her, eyebrows drawn together in a frown. Missouri hardly gave it a second thought, she  _ knew  _ what she was about to say was right. “Listen, what if I start lookin’ for some sort of accommodation for you in Janesville?”

“I can’t afford that-”

“Leave it to me. Let’s just say it’s possible. Whatcha say?”

Valerie’s eyes filled with tears and she pawed impatiently at them with her free hand, “Sorry, I’m always cryin’ these days.” Her eyes were so like Castiel’s, impossibly blue, expressive.

“S’okay, honey, your body’s just healin’,” only the Lord knew what pain it had to heal, “You wanna do that?”

Valerie gave a little nod and a wobbly smile. A single tear broke free, rolled down her trembling chin to drip on Missouri’s thumb.  “Alright. Now all you gotta do is get better, okay?” Missouri said, lifting herself from the bench, and untangling her hands from Valerie’s, “And you can call me any time, y’know that right?”

Valerie nodded at her lap, closing her eyes and letting tears fall over her sharp cheekbones, just like Castiel’s.

Valerie reached for her hand, as Missouri turned to leave, “Hey, the, uh, the lady at reception came and told me that my fees for this place had been settled already. You didn’t-”

Missouri patted her shoulder, “You just get better.”

“Missouri-”

“It’s done,” Missouri said, holding up her hands. “Now you only got one thing to worry about.”

Valerie stared at her, tears dripping constant from her pointed chin, “Thank you.”

“We’ll speak soon.”

It was early evening by the time Missouri made it back home, having stopped at Craig High to hand in the signed forms to Principal Mills, who accepted them with a wide smile and high hopes for her new student. Missouri kept her fingers crossed that Castiel would live up to their expectations.

Sam was at the kitchen counter surrounded by a fortress of textbooks, which she had to move aside to say hello.

“Where’s Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee?” she asked, smoothing his baby-soft hair back from his forehead. He scrunched his nose at her ministrations. There was a time when Sam would never leave her side, when he was still in single digits with a mouthful of milk teeth. He’d clamber into her lap, cling to her legs, scream and wail when she put him in his own bed. She’d been on the lookout for signs of attachment disorders ever since she first met him, but he seemed to have grown out of that as he entered his teens. Or just learned to mask it better.

“I think Cas is in the lounge, Dean’s upstairs,” he replied with a shrug, his eyes scanning fast over the open pages in front of him, hand scrawling notes automatically.

“Whatcha workin’ on? School hasn’t started yet,” she nodded towards his textbooks.

“Botany: plants and stuff, just getting ready,” Sam smiled.  Missouri nodded, bemused by Sam’s enthusiasm, so unlike any other fourteen-year-old boy.

She headed upstairs to Dean. The room was almost too small for the two beds Missouri had squeezed in there for them. Clothes piled high in the gap between them, since it was probably easier than trying to clamber over Sam’s bed to get to the wardrobe. Missouri would do it anyway sometimes, when the boys were away after school or the weekend. She’d pack all their clothes neatly away, sorting smelly from clean. Dean’s band t-shirts and henleys, Sam’s plaid shirts. She’d fold their pajamas too, tuck them beneath their pillows.

Dean was sprawled on his bed, laptop (his most treasured gift from John) nestled on his legs and blaring out battle sounds; clashing swords and throaty cries. He hit a button decisively, looking up at her with his easy smile.

“Not Castiel’s sort of thing?” Missouri asked with a tilted head toward his laptop. Dean’s face darkened.

“What’s that look for?”

“Does he really have to stay here?” Dean asked, face pinched and unimpressed.

“Yes,” Missouri said, “My turn: I need you to help me sort through your clothes and find some stuff for Castiel to wear.”

Dean groaned, opened his mouth for complaint, but she silenced him with a finger in the air, “No, thank you. You’ve made your point quite clear, but I ain’t havin’ it. I don’t have the money to buy him a whole new wardrobe. You and Castiel are similar sizes, similar height… it would be a nice thing to do, don’t you think?”

Dean rolled his eyes but set his laptop aside to clamber over Sam’s bed all the same.

Castiel appeared a few piles of clothes later, and Missouri called him in. Castiel watched warily from the doorway, Dean glaring back from the bed. Missouri turned a pointed look to Dean which smoothed his features almost instantly. “Dean’s agreed to lend you some clothes,” she explained to Castiel, from her perch on the chaotic floor, “come take a look.”

Castiel shot another look towards Dean before scrutinizing the piles on the floor, lifting the band shirts and plaid, inspecting them passively. “I’ve got clothes,” he murmured, dropping to the floor gracefully near Missouri all the same.

“You should have more, for school,” Missouri insisted, “I can’t afford to buy you nothin-”

“I’m not asking you to,” Castiel replied, his voice sharp, “I didn’t ask for any of this.”

Missouri kept her gaze steady until he simmered back down with another sideways glance at Dean. “We ain’t doing that anymore,” Missouri said, “No more, you hear me? You’re gonna stay here, eat our food and go to school and graduate with your class. That’s the plan.”

Castiel sat, staring at his lap before nodding with a sigh.

“Great,” she smiled, “go try some of these on.”

As soon as Castiel had left, some jeans and plaid button-down bundled in his arms, Dean spoke. “Who the hell does he think he is?”

Missouri rolled her eyes, “Dean, honey, you don’t know what he’s been through.”

“I don’t care,” Dean hissed, “He’s a freakin’ asshole.”

Missouri stopped him with another glare, “Oh and you’ve been such a bundle of roses? That boy has  _ suffered, _ and I don’t want him sufferin’ no more. Give him a chance.” Dean leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms tightly across his chest. She chuckled at the sight: 6-foot boy on the cusp of becoming a man, sulking like a four-year-old. She didn’t get the chance to say anything else as Castiel reappeared. The shirt was a little baggy on his shoulders, but it fit him well enough.

“Good?” she asked, as moments stretched uncomfortably by Castiel’s silence.

He nodded with a half-smile, “Thanks.”

Missouri helped him gather the rest of Dean’s clothes, taking them to the lounge to store them in some spare cubby boxes she’d stored underneath the coffee table: a makeshift dresser. Castiel sat on the couch, pulling his own clothes from his backpack he mimicked Missouri as she neatly folded Dean’s shirts. Eyes on his task, Castiel looked to be mustering up some courage.

“Missouri?” Castiel’s voice was quiet, small, hesitant. She turned to him and saw him shuffling his feet against the carpet.  “I was wondering if you’d… have you heard anything from Claire?”

Missouri’s stomach swooped. She knew there was something niggling at the back of her mind at the office over the last week. Damn it, how could she have forgotten? Missouri couldn’t keep the grimace from her face, which Castiel answered with a snarl. From lost boy to caged wolf in .5. It was enough to give her whiplash.

“Wait-”

“Fuck you, Missouri!” he yelled, clothes shoved violently back into his bag, his eyes molten fury. Missouri glanced behind her to the kitchen. Sam sat up straight, his eyes trained on them. Castiel made no move to come closer, but his fists balled so tight the skin stretched white. “What, you just forgot?” he raged, “She’s  _ fourteen  _ years old and she’s on the streets. She has no one. Only me. And  _ you _ said you’d help her.”

“I’ve been-”

“Busy, right,” Castiel laughed humorlessly, throwing his backpack over his shoulder, slamming the front door on his way out.


	5. Buttercup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Tracks for Chapter:  
> Moths - This Is The Kit  
> Challenge - Clem Leek  
> Dorsay - Clem Leek  
> When You Break - Bear's Dean  
> Emergency - Nothing But Thieves

Castiel burst onto the street, indignation fueling his feet as he put as much distance between himself and Missouri as possible. How could he have been so foolish? To think he’d nearly begun to trust her.

Castiel made the half hour walk from Missouri’s house into Janesville, breathing through the anger that simmered and burned against his throat. His stomach rumbled insistently; it had been a long time since he’d eaten. He had felt odd about taking food from the cupboards while Missouri wasn’t there to offer. Dean and Sam had had no qualms of course. Castiel took a few slices of bread, squirreled away to eat in the privacy of the lounge while the brothers set themselves at the kitchen counter. Castiel found he and Dean got on better if there was at least a wall, if not two between them at all times. No disputes, no fights, just avoidance in its purest form.

Janesville didn’t boast much. Its main street, lined with slender trees and elegant street lights, included a small convenience store, liquor store and market, a bank and a few independent shops. A gas station glinted in the distance. There was a drug store, too, and a doctor’s office, a modest library and a post office. Just across the road from the gas station, there sat a squat little bar, Harvelle’s Roadhouse, marked by a sign on the road.

There weren’t very many people around for a Saturday evening. Not quite the bustling city he was used to. He poked his head in the windows of the shops that lined the streets, all closing for the evening. There was a man pushing back the awning that covered the sidewalk in front of his cafe who gave Castiel a shy smile and a nod. His warmth reminded Castiel immediately of Claire, and he rubbed at his chest to stopper the ache there. She was strong, and she would be fine. Maybe Missouri wouldn’t help her, but that didn’t stop him from trying, did it?

He ducked in to the little grocery store, walking slowly between the narrow aisles, his stomach growling loudly again. He ran his hands distractedly along the packets of Maruchan Ramen, neatly lined along the shelf. The packets rustled and wrinkled beneath his fingers. He could taste them. On those nights when they were alone with Valerie, and she’d passed out or taken to bed mid-afternoon and failed to reappear, Gabriel would cook up Noodle Feasts. As many packets as they had, didn’t matter about flavor, he cooked them all up at once, served them in the same saucepan. He and Castiel would flick through the channels, saucepan as big as their heads between them, full of cheap noodles and happy.

He turned from the noodles quickly, his chest aching and his stomach growling the longer he stared at them, and he instantly collided with a young woman. She was not much older than him by the look of her; perfect pale skin, pearly white teeth that blinded as she grinned at him, her blonde hair swishing her sickly-sweet perfume under his nose as she dodged him. She mumbled an apology, looking back at him over her slim shoulder. He rubbed a finger under his nose, trying to dislodge the overbearing smell of her.

A few chocolate bars made it into his jacket pockets, and he cradled them carefully as he left, nodding to a cashier as she gave him a smile and a wave.

There was a small park, barely more than a few benches and a couple of bushes where Castiel ate his winnings. He scrolled through his contacts for Claire’s number, the warm flickering glow of the street light above pushing at the darkness that had begun to settle around him. There was a fluttering in his stomach as the ringtone droned in his ear, and he hoped she’d pick up, worried for her safety.

“Cassie!” She cried, successfully stopping his thoughts in their spiraling track.

“Hey, kid,” he smiled, all that fluttering disappearing as quick as it had come, “how’s it going?”

“Ah man, just chillin’ at the shelter. Where’ve you been? I don’t want to get sappy or anything but I miss you!”

“Calm down,” he teased, even though there was a warmth glowing in his chest. He’d missed her, too.

“Where’ve you been?”

“My attorney picked me up,” he said, “took me back to mom’s.”

“You’re back home?”

“Not exactly,” Castiel said, “my mom wasn’t there.”

“Maybe she just-”

“Neither was any of her stuff.”

He could hear the wince in Claire’s voice, “Shit. Sorry. So, you’re staying with your attorney? That’s nice of her.”

Castiel shrugged, the sour taste in his mouth from her betrayal still ripe, “She’s okay.”

“No, Cas, that’s really nice of her. It’s not like… part of her job to do that. You should be grateful.”

“I asked if she could help you, too,” he said, keeping any accusation out of his voice, “I gave her your number.”

“Aw, Cassie, you worried about me?”

“You wish,” he chuckled and then because she was completely right, “so you’re okay?”

“I guess. I’ve been workin’ with Maggie actually, getting my resume halfway-presentable. You could be talking to the future drive-through caller at Wendy’s.”

Castiel snorted, “Always had you pegged for McDonalds.”

“Shut up,” Claire laughed, “Oh, shit, Cas, it’s light’s out, I gotta go. But we’ll talk soon, okay? Call me, I never have credit.”

“Who even has credit nowadays?”

“Regular fourteen-year-olds, Cas. Laters!”

Castiel stared at his phone long after she hung up.

“Hey,” a strange voice came from somewhere behind him. Castiel swiveled and was greeted by a thin-faced young man, maybe only a few years older than himself. His youth was evident despite the maturity of his face; it showed in the straightness of his shoulders and the ease of his gait, like the whole world owed him its thanks.

Castiel gave an unsure smile, taking in his peculiar eyes, deep set and glaring bright, almost pale beneath the milky light of the streetlamp. As he got closer they grew darker, the color of dusk.

“Haven’t seen you around here before,” the man said, taking a seat next to Castiel on the bench.

“Yeah, I uh, just got here,” Castiel replied, trying not to draw attention to his shuffle along the bench, putting just a little more space between them. He could easily be noted as handsome; proud Romanesque nose, prominent cheekbones and closely cropped stubble. But there was something in the sharp points of his smile that rose goose pimples along Castiel’s skin.

“I see. And where are you from?”

“Madison,” Castiel said, looking dubiously at the hand that was suddenly thrust towards him. The fingers were long. skeletal, topped with pale white nails.

“Alastair,” the young man said.

“Castiel,” he replied, reaching tentatively for Alastair’s hand and shaking it loosely. Alastair’s skin was cold to the touch and eerily smooth, free of hardship.

“You planning on sticking around a while?” Alastair asked as he spread himself comfortably across the bench.

Castiel snorted, gathering a little closer around himself, “Don’t have much say in it.”

Alastair laughed, and the sound burbled in his throat “I feel you there. Getting stuck here is easy.”

Castiel nodded, chuckling nervously. The guy reminded him of some of Gabriel’s friends: unreadable, untouchable, unknowable. “Well, Castiel, have you got any plans tonight?” Alastair asked, lighting a cigarette with a match, which he extinguished between his spit-slicked fingers without a flinch. Castiel watched, mesmerized, before shrugging his shoulders.

“There doesn’t seem much to do here,” he said, taking in the darkening street around them. He and Alastair were the only souls around.

A slow grin spread across Alastair’s face, “I might know a place or two.”

The place turned out to be the basement of Alastair’s family home, accessed by a separate entrance, down a steep set of steps from the sidewalk. Either Alastair’s parents were trusting, or they simply didn’t give a shit, Castiel thought wryly.

The smoke, as he stepped into main room, stung his eyes and made them water. The sounds were deafening in the low-ceilinged basement, but the beer was cold and there was plenty of it.

Within an hour Castiel was drunk. His eyes drooped, his tongue loose and heavy in his mouth. He felt good. The anger that had been coursing through his veins was a mere whisper; he had to really strain if he wanted to hear it. Castiel knew where he was with the bottle, but the cannabis passed to him was new. He liked the cloud that fogged his mind and the way it protected him from the sharp, jagged corners of his thoughts, usually clamoring around in his head. Now there was only bliss, endless and comfortable.

Alastair’s Lair, as the basement was fondly known, was a place for misfits. His new companion was like Peter Pan. Did that make Castiel Wendy? He chuckled at the thought, and Crowley, an exchange student from the UK and Alastair’s house guest, started to laugh, too, even though Castiel was fairly certain he hadn’t said anything out loud.

There was music blasting from the television speakers. A couple of girls, dangerous and beautiful, writhed and danced seductively in the heat of the room. Castiel watched them as they moved, appreciating their beauty in the detached way he had always seen girls. He recognised the blonde from the grocery store earlier. Her wide-set eyes fixed on him from across the room, and she flashed a smile, coy and seductive. He supposed if he found women attractive at all, she would have probably stir something in him. He sank his sixth beer and accepted the spliff as it was pressed in between his numb, tingling fingers.

Crowley, stocky and well-dressed with a heavy British accent, grinned at him and leaned forward in his chair, “Why Janesville, Cas?”

Castiel laughed bitterly, dragging his eyes away from the blonde and taking a final toke before passing the joint to the slumped-over body to his left. Crowley followed his line of sight with eyes so dark you’d be forgiven for thinking they were black, blown out and a little watery. He sprawled back into the comfy armchair he’d chosen, like a pompous prince on a throne.

“Didn’t have much choice,” Castiel replied. He ached at how true that was, how much he was totally at the disposal of adults he hated. He wasn’t used to such little control. Before the crash, he and Gabriel called every shot, went where they pleased. Castiel’s decisions mattered for so little now, it was a wonder he made any at all. Why not just drop off the radar? It wasn’t like anybody was going to notice, or care to catch him.

“What about you?” Castiel frowned, “Surely you’d go somewhere interesting… New York or… San Francisco. Not Wisconsin. Not Janesville.”

Crowley shrugged, nonchalant, “I have a taste for the unremarkable, what can I say? I’ve got no use for bright lights and fancy things. I overcompensate with my clothes and my taste for recreational drugs.”

Castiel snorted, and then he laughed at his snort, until both he and Crowley were giggling uncontrollably.

“Al says you came from Madison,” Crowley said on a blissful sigh, taking another toke and passing it over. Castiel’s fingers were beginning to feel completely detached from his body as they gripped at the joint.

Castiel nodded, at least he thought he did. His head was so cloudy he didn’t feel entirely in control of its movements.

“Well, welcome. My apologies on behalf of this arse-end-of-nowhere town,” Crowley grinned, “you got your own place or...?”

Castiel snorted, “I wish. I’m living with my lawyer right now.”

“Where’s that?”

“Hawthorne… Avenue? I think?” Castiel giggled. Crowley frowned, leaned forward again, finger tapping at his chin, deep in thought.

“Hawthorne… Hawtho- Hey! Al! Doesn’t Winchester live on Hawthorne?”

Alastair had a strange way of smiling, like a hungry predator. Like a snake, if snakes could smile. He nodded and raised his glass before turning that ravenous grin back to the blonde, whose eyes were still plastered to Castiel. He could feel her stare creep across his skin and Castiel suppressed a shudder. Crowley slapped his knee with glee.

“I knew it! You met the kid? Struts around town like he owns the place; kinda stocky… girly face, fucking hate the guy,” Crowley insisted, “stupid name too, Dan or… Dom, ah, Dean!” Crowley cried, taking a healthy swig from his glass, ice cubes clinking together musically.

“Shit,” Castiel laughed, “I live with him.”

Crowley howled, “You poor, fuckin’ bastard.”

Time warped around him; he was there, he was everywhere, he was nowhere. He was watching two girls, the blonde and a black-haired beauty leave with Alastair, he was copying the slow breaths of Crowley who slumped in an alcoholic slumber in his armchair, head lolling back against the padded headrest. Castiel was really very high. And drunk. Confused and dizzy. He left Alastair’s basement with the party’s last stragglers as the gathering began to dwindle, guys whose names he was too mentally-obliterated to remember.

He waved vaguely behind him as he turned the opposite way of his companions and staggered, zig-zagging up the hill in the general direction of Missouri’s house. Judging by the chill of the night and the silence of the streets he guessed he’d missed curfew. A check of his phone confirmed it was nearly two in the morning. The light of his phone, swaying in a hand that didn’t feel like his own made his stomach lurch. Castiel groaned, nauseated, as he stuffed it hurriedly back into his pocket, pulling the straps of his backpack tighter around his shoulders.

As he turned down random streets and tried to remember the way he’d come that afternoon, Castiel’s thoughts began to sour. He shook his head furiously. His brain knocked against the walls of his skull and he squeezed his eyes shut against the unpleasant sensation. But the darkness behind his eyelids began to spin and his stomach lurched again in earnest.

He thought of his mother; somehow, he always circled back around to her. Earlier that evening, when the alcohol had leant the most pleasant buzz to his body, he understood her dependence on it. Mixed with the weed, everything had been incredible. The sofa had been plush beneath his thighs and back, and the music was the best he’d ever heard. The smell of sweat and beer and cannabis concocted the most euphoric of scents, and Castiel had understood. He’d understood completely.

Stumbling down Hawthorne Avenue (he’d had to stare at the road sign until the letters stopped swirling), Castiel was reminded that the effects of intoxication were temporary. He always forgot that important fact. Conveniently. This wasn’t his first rodeo. He’d wandered blindly down this path many times before. Not as often as his mother, of course, but often enough to know what he liked and to ask for it with confidence. And it was usually at this moment, when the euphoria began to wear off, that his anger returned, bolstered by that most persistent of feelings: a paralyzing fear that he’d already fucked his life beyond repair. This was it for him. This was all he’d ever amount to.

Where was he going? What the hell was he going to do?

Castiel shivered in the gathering cold and gritted his teeth against the rising despair. How could his mother bear it? The come-down. The shame.

He supposed, answering his own question, she never stopped long enough to let it happen. And that was just it wasn’t it? Her dependence was just a never-ending battle against the same feeling that simmered in his gut, made his tongue bitter and his thoughts black as soot. In that moment, for the first time in his life, Castiel felt a flicker of pity for her. He told himself that he didn’t care what had happened to her. She’d left him, and as far as he was concerned, that was the stopper in the vial of their poisonous relationship. He didn’t care.

He didn’t.

He hadn’t realised where he was, so caught up was he in his own brooding, until he heard a familiar voice, shaking with barely-contained rage.

“Get inside. Now.”

Missouri’s face was as he’d never seen it. A dark fury carved deep in her eyes and in the tight lines of her mouth. She leaned close to him as she closed the door behind him and sniffed, recoiling with a look of disgust.

“Seriously?” she said, her voice frightening in its hushed tone. Castiel smirked, covering the guilt, the shame, and made for the living room. Missouri’s hand was firm on his arm. “Don’t you walk away from me,” she said, “tell me where you’ve been.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. His anger took hold of the script once more, spitting poisonous thoughts and lodging them deep in his throat, bulging, swelling, tightening the space until his only choice was choke or  _ repeat after me _ . Her anger, her concern fanned the flames. Pitying him. Taking him in. Poor little Castiel, nowhere to go, nobody to love him.

“Answer me,” she intoned, her voice darkening.

“Out,” Castiel spat, the tightness loosening just a little, “can I go now?”

Missouri’s jaw tightened, he watched the muscles jumping against her cheeks. Her eyes, dark and bottomless, narrowed and she shook her head, crestfallen, “I asked nothin’ of you but to respect this house, my rules. I am so disappointed- “

“Yeah, get in line,” Castiel shrugged, pulling his arm free of her grip with a violent jerk.

“Why are you doin’ this?” her voice rose, “What exactly is it you’re tryna prove? ‘Cause I thought I knew, but this-”

Castiel was beginning to boil over and he threw his arms in the air, his voice rising in turn, “What the fuck did you expect?”

Missouri glanced briefly upstairs. Castiel heard the creaking of the floorboards up there but the smoldering coals of his anger were fanned quickly into raging flames, licking up the cage of his ribs, threatening to strangle him from the inside.

“I don’t need your fucking help, your stupid house, your fucking ‘mama bear’ bullshit,” he sneered, stepping towards her and recognising almost savagely that he had her cornered near the door as she backed away. He closed in like a ravenous wolf until he was nose to nose with her. Her eyes widened, and he sneered.

“I’m not some fucking charity for good karma,” he hissed through gritted teeth, “I told you once, and I will tell you again-” There was a hand on his chest, and Castiel’s drug-addled brain had hardly processed his trajectory across the narrow corridor until his back connected with the wall behind him.

“ _ Get out! _ ” Dean yelled. Castiel could just see Sam peeking at the scene from the top of the stairs.

Castiel motioned up the staircase to him, laughing maniacally, “Well, don't just stand there, join in the fun- “

“You don’t talk to him,” Dean growled, his face suddenly centimeters from Castiel’s, “you don’t  _ look  _ at him.”

Castiel smirked but it quickly fell from his face as Dean’s fist curled in the front of his shirt, “I mean it.”

Missouri leaned against the wall Castiel had backed her into, her laboured breathing the only sound in the cramped little hallway. Castiel saw her reach out towards Dean, saying his name in a way that begged him to stop. Dean didn’t stop. His breath was sour from sleep, but his words were serious and sharp, “You are fucking filth. You’re never gonna amount to anything. You’ll die sad and you’ll die alone and no one's gonna care. Ain’t nobody gonna miss you. Hell, they won’t even notice you’re gone.”

Castiel snorted. There was nothing Dean could say to him that he hadn’t already whispered a to himself a thousand times in the dark. It didn’t hurt. Instead Castiel felt… numb. All the tingling had gone, all the dizziness. Now, it was just a nausea blanketing his gut, and a very real feeling of dread.

“Is that so?” he challenged all the same. If he’d really fucked this up, might as well make sure he’d done it properly.

“You set foot back in this house again- “

“See, it’s funny,” Castiel laughed humorlessly, shrugging himself from Dean’s grip, “I seem to remember you threatening me like this before- “

“Leave,” came a quiet, firm voice he hadn’t expected. Castiel looked past Dean’s shoulder to see Sam clutching tightly at Missouri’s hand, which visibly shook in his grasp. Sam’s eyes were cool and collected, and he said it again a little louder. Dean punctuated it with a hard shove to Castiel’s shoulders. Castiel held his hands up in surrender, smirk still plastered like a mask on his face.

“Don’t you dare come back, I mean it,” Dean’s voice was stone, unshakeable and hard. Castiel scoffed at the whole performance, this ridiculous back and forth.

“Believe me,” he laughed, though it sounded brittle, “I won’t.”

And with a slam of the front door behind him, Castiel was alone. Again.

Castiel awoke from strangely vivid dreams of smoldering green eyes watching him from the shadows, to a sharp ache in his head, the springs of Alastair’s busted, old couch poking insistently between his ribs. The room smelled sour and musty, every surface covered in debris from the night before: empty Margiekugel bottles and cans, cigarette papers, filters and ashtrays full-to-the-brim. Castiel squinted, barely remembering how he’d gotten there.

“Morning,” Alastair drawled from somewhere behind his head. Castiel craned his neck and groaned his instant regret as the pain in his head spiked, sharp and insistent. Alastair’s peculiar, bubbling laugh rattled painfully in his skull and Castiel squeezed his eyes closed.

“What happened?” He groaned, curling tighter into a ball as if he could hide from the punishment.

He heard Alastair fiddling somewhere behind his head and imagined a shrug of his shoulders as he began throwing cans into a garbage bag.

“When I came back down here, Crowley was the only one here; said you’d left with Brady and Marcus. And then suddenly you were back, pissed to all hell. I mean that in both senses, you were  _ mad.  _ Crowley gave you his couch. ‘Bout time he used the room my folks set up for him. Maybe it’s a British thing? Guy makes no sense to me”

As Alastair chattered on, Castiel’s memories of the night before came crawling back to him, one by sorry one. He refused to feel ashamed, but it was difficult to ignore the beginnings of it as he recalled the sight of Missouri’s shaking hand clutched in Sam’s. Had he really caused that fear? Was he so vile as to mercilessly snap at the only hand stretched out to him? He already knew the answer to that one.

Castiel swallowed against the humiliation that tore slowly and agonisingly through him. For all his swagger and self-righteousness, he was painfully aware how much he’d fucked up his only way out of this mess. The realisation wasn’t the first of its kind; he’d always known he was good-for-nothing, a hopeless fuck-up. But, with the gaping hole of homelessness growing wider beneath his feet with every hand he bit, Castiel was beginning to feel cornered. Once again, he told himself that he didn’t care, and tried to ignore how flimsy it felt this time.

As if hearing his inner distress, Alastair appeared beside the sofa accompanied by the bitter smell of coffee, “Couch is yours if you want it. You’re welcome to stay for a while.”  Castiel nodded and mumbled some thanks as he gulped the boiling coffee as quickly as he could, swallowing the last remnants of his irritating thoughts with it.

Castiel heard delicate feet on the steps to the basement and turned, wincing as the dull throb of his head rushed down the back of his neck, to see the blonde girl from yesterday, sleek, dangerously beautiful, enter the room and saunter straight to Alastair, hips a lazy sway as she fell into his open arms with a musical giggle.

“Cute skirt,” Alastair drawled, running his hands over its plaid pleats.

“Your daddy certainly thought so,” she preened, kissing him soundly. Alastair’s expression clouded over, Castiel could see it from his perch on the couch, saw the whitening of his knuckles against the red of her skirt, the color of blood against the milk of her thighs. As they kissed, Castiel couldn’t help but notice her open eyes trained on him. Castiel frowned and she smiled into the kiss. She winked, slow and deliberate, and Castiel looked away hastily, suddenly finding the constellations of dirt trodden into Alastair’s carpet utterly fascinating. She broke away from the kiss with a happy sigh.

“Lil, you remember Cas?” Alastair asked, his voice low and seductive, seemingly recovered from her comment. His hands were relaxed again now, smoothing up Lilith’s sides, making her shiver.

“Vaguely,” she replied. She stalked towards Castiel and he gritted his teeth. Her cotton candy perfume made his nose crinkle. She leant down over him, and he instantly felt foolish for not standing. Lilith kissed the air beside his cheek, one side and then the other. She locked eyes with him again as she pulled away and Castiel couldn’t think of a single time he’d felt so uncomfortable. Something in her smile, which stopped at her perfect, white teeth.

“Nice to meet you, Cas. I’m Lilith,” she said, tracing her eyes down his body to stop where his lap was hidden beneath a ratty old blanket, which he barely resisted pulling tighter about himself. His skin crawled. He sought out Alastair from somewhere behind her, but he was busy appreciating Lilith’s long legs.

“You, too,” Castiel murmured, flashing a quick half-smile.

Lilith giggled, “I didn’t take you for a shrinking violet, Cas.”

Castiel rubbed the back of his neck, beginning to feel a little flustered. She was right, he was never like this, but there was something so predatory about her. “Just a little hungover,” he chuckled. Alastair laughed, coming over and wrapping his arms around Lilith’s waist. He spoke directly into her ear, “He was a real mess, weren’t you, Cas?”

“Right,” Castiel huffed, “wasted. Memory’s totally blank.” The lie rolled right off his tongue, sour from beer, and… did he puke last night?

“Why’d you come back?” Alastair asked, pulling up a chair and dragging Lilith into his lap, “you weren’t… in the right capacity to tell me last night.”

Angry green eyes filled Castiel’s memory. Sam’s steely gaze. Missouri’s shaking hands.

“Came to blows,” Castiel shrugged, “walked out before it got too heated.”

“With Dean?” Alastair frowned.

“Yeah.”

“Oh,” Lilith sighed, pulling away from Alastair’s grip to float towards the kitchenette, which consisted of a couple of cupboards, a sink built into the stained worktop and a mini fridge, “what I wouldn’t give for a piece of that Winchester, he’s-”

The scrape of Alastair’s chair rang in the small space as he shot up, spinning Lilith around to face him. Alastair’s face was instantly stormy where it had been almost warm. His hands gripped her arms so tightly her skin turned white around his bony fingers.

“You wanna run that by me again?”

“You know what I mean,” Lilith laughed, the sound tinged with panic.

“What can Dean Winchester give you that I can’t? Huh? You know he’s a fucking faggot, right?” Alastair’s nasally voice stayed dangerously quiet even as his eyes began to glint with malice. Castiel’s insides clenched at the slur.

“Al-” Castiel said, a useless attempt to calm him down. Alastair’s eyes whirled to him, and the tension in Alastair’s jaw was all the encouragement Castiel needed to shut up.

“Cas,” Alastair said, his voice venomous, eyes were focused on Lilith, “would you give us a moment?”

Castiel didn’t need to be told twice.


	6. Purple Carnation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Tracks for Chapter:  
> Lisztomania - Phoenix  
> 1979 - The Smashing Pumpkins   
> All The Sad Young Men - Spector  
> Love Will Tear Us Apart - Joy Division

The rest of his Summer blew by in a cloud of smoke, literally. Castiel spent most of the time obliterated; alcohol, weed, often an intoxicating mix of both. He matched his new companions drink for drink and often woke wrapped around the toilet bowl. He spent most days sleeping off the hangover in the dark quiet of Alastair’s basement, the same battered couch bending his back sore.

His thoughts circled solely around his next drink or toke, to ease the near constant pain in his head and stomach. He survived mostly on chips and take-out pizza, courtesy of a credit card slipped from Alastair’s father’s wallet by the prodigal son himself.

Castiel hadn’t learned terribly much about Alastair in their time together; he kept so much guarded, he gave Castiel a run for his money. So they existed together, them and Crowley, on a plane where the only thing keeping them together was the lack of choice, their conversations stuck in easy realms; whatever had happened the night before, how much beer was left in the mini fridge and how much money they had between them to restock it, which, with his completely empty bank account, never stopped being a humiliating conversation for Castiel to navigate. Thankfully, Alastair was generous with his parents’ money, and didn’t ever push for Castiel’s share. Castiel wrote I.O.Us every time all the same, now accumulated in a small stack of yellow post-its, stuck to the counter by the sink.

When it was just the three of them, they’d drag chairs over to the sliding back door and sit just inside, looking over the darkening lawn, immaculate and diligently mowed in neat lines once a week by Alastair’s father. They’d smoke out of that door, sometimes as much as two whole cartons between them in an evening. Those nights Castiel let Crowley and Alastair do all the talking. Half of him listened, the other was very far away. Back in Madison. Back to vague memories of camping in the backyard with Gabriel all Summer long, telling ghost stories and hiding smuggled candy in their pillow cases. The mornings after, Castiel could hardly breathe; his lungs choked with smoke and something more profound.

Despite the amount of time Castiel spent thinking on his brother, he never imagined he’d get in touch. He had to duck into the garden, dark except for the golden, smoky light that bled from the back door. He was happy for the excuse to escape; Lilith had been lingering; not actively or perhaps even on purpose, but always in his periphery, her perfume making his nose itch.

“ _ An inmate from Dane County Jail is attempting to contact you, _ ” droned the automated voice and Castiel’s heart plummeted, “to accept this call, please press one.” His hands began to shake as he accepted the call and waited with baited breath.

“Cassie?”

Castiel’s mouth flapped around words stolen by the sheer force of his relief.

“Hel- Fuckin’ thing doesn’t even work-”

“Gabe,” Castiel breathed, finally, cradling the phone with both hands, sliding the back door fully closed and sinking to the cold wood of Alastair’s deck.

“Jesus, boy, you tryna’ gimme a coronary before I’m legal?!” Gabriel laughed, “God, it’s good to hear your voice.”

“Yours, too,” Castiel said, his grin pushing a deep ache into his cheeks, “so you’re at Dane County?”

“I’d call it Purgatory, but yeah. Don’t ask me about it, I’m so sick of these motherfuckers. Only just got my phone calls sorted, can you believe that?”

Castiel cocked his head, “Isn’t that what people do as soon as they get in?”

“Right? Apparently not,” Gabriel was smiling despite his chagrin, Castiel could hear it in his voice, “but why are we talking about this? How come I gotta hear from my lawyer that you’re in Janesville and mom’s gone MIA? What the fuck’s goin’ on? And why is my lawyer tellin’ me you got kicked out by yours?”

That snatched Castiel’s smile straight from his face.

“What?” he said, lamely.

“What did she do, Cas?” Gabriel asked, his voice sinister in tone.

What _ had  _ she done? Care enough to look past the asshat he’d been and take him into her home anyway? Clothe him, feed him… Castiel gathered himself tighter beneath his clothes like he could drown.

“Nothing,” he murmured.

“What did  _ you _ do, then? God, this had better be good, Cas, because I swear if you’re just bummin’ around the streets-”

“I’m not, I just…” but Castiel’s excuses had run dry. Gabriel hummed thoughtfully on the other end, sighing heavily.

“Senior year starts Monday, huh? You got everything you need?” Gabriel always knew when to drop a subject. Castiel’s head hit the back door, flung back in relief before he’d really processed the question.

_ Fuck _ . School. Missouri had enrolled him in at Craig High. Dean would be there. Honestly, Castiel didn’t quite see the point. Lots of people got through life without their GED, why should he bother? He could hit the road, figure it out by himself.

_ Yeah _ , he thought bitterly,  _ with what car? With what money? _

“Yeah, I was thinking-”

“I swear to God, Cassie, if you’re about to say you’re thinking of not going,” Gabriel threatened darkly, “don’t. Because I got a lot of time here to rage about dumb shit, and that could keep me goin’ long enough to beat your ass when I get out.”

“I don’t see the point” Castiel said, rising to the heat.

“You don’t see th- Cas, you’re the last Krushnic, you get that right? You’re the  _ last one of us  _ with a chance to get it  _ right _ . To not fuck this beyond repair. Are you fucking  _ kidding _ me? You think mom wants you to end up just like her? You wanna follow in  _ my  _ footsteps?”

“I…” Once again, Castiel’s words failed him. He hadn’t really thought about what his mom hoped for him. She’d never shown any interest in his future, in his life, so he figured she just… didn’t care. Even if she  _ did _ have hopes and dreams for him, it didn’t change anything. She still left him to rot.

“You’re gonna go to that school on Monday, Cas. You’re gonna go every damn day, and you’re gonna get your grades and a steady job… hell, go to college. If you won’t do it for yourself, or for mom, do it for  _ me _ . Lord knows I’m gonna need someone to mooch off of the rest of my life.”

Gabriel always had a flair for alleviating tension like that. With the snap of his fingers, a quick punchline and all consternation was forgotten.

“ _ One-minute remaining _ ,” the automated voice said. Castiel panicked, “There’s a time limit?” he cried, “Wait-”

“Yeah, I’m in prison, Cas, not callin’ you from my holiday in Florida,” Gabriel chuckled, “So you gonna go to school on Monday?”

“Yes,” Castiel said, unsure of the truth of it.

“You promise?”

“I promise. And you be good in there,” Castiel added quickly, “don’t get into trouble just-”

The dial tone droned in his ear like a flatline. If Castiel could cry, he might have right then. Instead, he hung up, stuffing his phone back into his pocket and pushed all thoughts from his mind in favor of losing himself once more to oblivion.

Despite the empty promise he’d made to Gabe (the guilt of which had kept him restless the past few nights), it turned out that Castiel was destined to end up at school anyway. Alastair, a drop-out, Castiel quickly discovered, had an obligation to his parents to get Crowley to school. Crowley hated it just as much, but Alastair made it clear that his suffering was better than his father’s alternative. Castiel lost his nerve to suggest he stay in Alastair’s basement while Crowley was at school. It suddenly seemed ridiculous. Invasive. He didn’t like to think what Alastair might have said if he’d gone ahead with the idea. Castiel remembered the swiftness of his rage that first morning with Lilith. Out of nowhere and ferocious. Staying on his good side was top of Castiel’s priorities.

Craig High was exactly what anybody might imagine when thinking of an American High school. It was one story, wide and sprawling, surrounded by metal fencing and boasted a collection of playing fields around its sides. The parking lot stretched across the front, filled with the bustle of students, leaning against their cars, talking animatedly to one another. Some skulked in corners, and some watched greedily as Castiel emerged from the passenger seat of Alastair’s beat-up sedan. He felt the familiar self-consciousness settle back into his bones and would have crawled right back into the car again if it weren’t for Crowley’s quizzical look and insistent hand at his back, forcing him forwards. Castiel had never been the ‘new kid’ before, and it made him nervous. Which he hated. He schooled his expression as he pushed through the front doors.

Crowley accompanied him to the front desk and took over the process of registering Castiel. The women in the office seemed to know him well, laughed at his jokes and waxed lyrical about their summer vacations. It was impressive, the sway Crowley had over people.

“Here we are then,” Crowley said, handing Castiel his class schedule, surrounded by the burbling current of students flooding the hallway, “don’t talk to strangers, now.”

Castiel walked the unfamiliar corridors filled with new faces and hid behind the barbed cloak of his pride. Even if he was going to be here in this dead-end town for the foreseeable future, Castiel resolved to keep everyone at arm’s length. He’d skate beneath the radar, unremarkable, unseen, just until he could graduate. Afterall, he was here now whether he liked it or not, he might as well make good on his promise. Walking through those doors had been the tallest hurdle.

His schedule was a jumble of letters and numbers denoting teachers and classrooms he didn’t yet know. He was late to every single class that morning.  He sat at unfamiliar desks and didn’t even begin to hide his disinterest. He floated mindlessly from one room to the next. English Literature turned up a nasty surprise; Dean, five seats to his left, glaring daggers at him. Castiel held that stare with all the venom he could muster until Dean gave a full-bodied sigh, hefting himself up from the desk. His mouth was set in a grim line as he approached, walking through the rows, the muscle of his jaw jumping against the skin of his cheek. Without a word, he dumped a garbage bag onto Castiel’s desk with a soft thump, before slinking back to his seat.

Castiel scowled, begrudgingly checking the bag for undesirable contents. He scoffed, though a tendril of sadness touched the sound.

Clothes. Missouri had sent him clothes.

He met up with Crowley and Alastair during lunch break, sneaking through the open gate to the playing fields. It struck him as odd, a little sad. Alastair had dropped out and yet he still chose to hang out at school. He had all that independence just dumped into his lap - didn’t he want a job? Some excuse to get out of this sarcophagus of a town?

They spent the afternoon under the bleachers watching the day go by everywhere else. Castiel smoked a cigarette or five, the smell surrounding him like home and Crowley shared around his hip flask full of scotch. A pleasant buzz had begun to settle over his limbs, and Castiel thought perhaps he could get used to it. He stubbornly stuffed the rising guilt deep, deep down where it couldn’t bother him.

Or remind him that he’d broken his promise in a matter of hours.

He sucked down cigarette after cigarette, burying it. The smoke was different to that of cannabis; harsher, sharper. But he liked the way it caressed him inside, and the way it felt as he let it trickle slowly between his lips.

“How am I going to graduate like this?” Castiel said, shaking his head.

Alastair snorted, and Crowley provided an answer dripping in languid sarcasm, “Guess little Cassie’s never heard of Google.”

Castiel smirked and rolled his eyes, “I could have done that without showing up.”

Crowley threw a hand to his chest, with a hurt expression, “But then you wouldn’t have all of this to look forward to.”

“How is this any different to Al’s?” Castiel asked, an eyebrow cocked in amusement.

Crowley conceded with a shrug, “Gets us out the house.”

Castiel couldn’t deny that.

A whole week of missing classes this way hadn’t gone unnoticed however, and by Friday, Castiel found himself in the office of Principal Jody Mills, the room dominated by a huge darkwood desk, in front of a large bay window overlooking the school entryway. The wall to Castiel’s left was taken up by a huge floor to ceiling bookcase, filled with school photographs and serious dusty tomes. Jody’s auburn hair was cropped close to her skull, and her face was just as severe as she stared at him stonily from across her desk.

“We’re in quite a pickle here, aren’t we, Castiel? Care to explain yourself?” she asked. Castiel shrugged and sunk lower into his chair, keeping his eyes fixed solely on the point where her desk met the floor. A swift knock on the door failed to break the prickling of Jody’s stare against his cheek, “Yes?”

The door opened a crack, and in popped a head of blonde hair, an assistant of some kind, Castiel assumed.

“Hiya, Jodes!” she said, voice as sunny as her smile, “Dean Winchester’s just outside for ya.”

Hearing Dean’s name again, after weeks of not sparing a thought for him, sent shivers coursing over Castiel’s skin. He chalked it up to loathing. Couldn’t be fear, after all, Dean didn’t intimidate him. Castiel snuck a look across the desk just in time to see a wry smile spread across the principal’s face.

“What is it with you new kids?” she shook her head and steepled her hands against her lips. “You know what, Donna” she conceded with a sigh, looking once more to her eager assistant, “send him in here, too. Save me having to repeat myself.”

“You betcha.”

Dean sloped in, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets. He looked messy: his shirt was rumpled, his hair wild and there was something red blooming against his jaw, another on the rise of his cheekbone. As he cast his eyes to Jody’s desk, they widened at the sight of him. Castiel couldn’t help but smirk.

“Principal Mills, I can wait- “

“Dean,” she smiled, “sit.”

Dean’s nose crinkled in disgust. The chair scraped harshly against the floor as he dragged it as far from Castiel’s as he could, before collapsing into it with his arms folded tightly over his chest. It was such a childish move, Castiel couldn’t help but roll his eyes indulgently.

Jody’s eyebrows rose with a chuckle, “I take it you two know each other.”  Dean snorted and Castiel resumed staring at the floor. “Will somebody please look at me? Good god.”

Castiel raised his eyes to the desk, refused to look farther. He could feel the tension in Dean’s muscles, without even looking at him; it crackled in the air between them and set Castiel’s teeth so hard that they ground together.

“Now, I don’t know what the drama is between you two, and frankly, I don’t give a damn. What I give a damn about, is that you two leave here qualified and ready for the real world. I notice you guys don’t seem to care about that as much, would I be right in that assumption?”

“No,” Dean protested heatedly. Castiel shrugged his shoulders. The only things Castiel cared about in this moment were things out of his control: getting out of here, finding his brother, never having to see Dean Winchester again.

“I shouldn’t even be here,” Dean continued, “he’s got it in for me, that British assh- “

“Excuse me, Mr. Winchester, but I decide who should be here and who shouldn’t. Your teachers have come to me with their concerns, and given  _ your _ track record, Castiel, I’m surprised you even showed.”

Castiel rolled his eyes and surveyed his fingernails. He glanced at the clock and saw with a mild annoyance that school was nearly over. Wait, did Dean say-

“Dean, this is the fourth fight you’ve been at the heart of this week alone. I have called Miss. Moseley though I had hoped you would turn yourself around before she ever had to find out. I leave your punishment in her hands, but she has asked for my support while you’re under this roof.”

Castiel’s smirk deepened; judging by what he’d experienced of Missouri, Dean was in for a whole world of pain. She was insistent, that woman, larger than life, and a royal pain in the ass.

“And Castiel? You better think a little harder about your future because right now, you’re pissing it away.”

Castiel looked up sharply and bit back a snarl. He’d whispered that sort of rhetoric to himself in the dark ever since he was old enough to realise he was well and truly screwed from the start. But to hear it from someone else’s mouth, someone who didn’t even know him-

“Glare at me all you want, Castiel, you know it’s true.” Jody leaned back in her chair, bouncing slightly, her sharp features creased in thought.  “Okay, I have a suggest- actually, it’s not a suggestion; you have no say in the matter,” she spoke on a sigh, leaning her elbows on the desk, her expression inviting no back talk, “You boys will spend the next week right here in my office. It’ll be your only chance to suck it up and get your asses with the program. Otherwise, I’ll have no choice but to expel you both. Have I made myself quite clear?”

Castiel glanced briefly in Dean’s direction. He saw the tension in his posture match Castiel’s twitch for twitch. Dean’s jaw was clenched and there was a redness tinting his cheeks and neck. It made those blooming bruises stand out even more, almost purpling, mottling his skin. Could that really have been Crowley’s fault? Dean had at least a few inches on Crowley, but… thinking about it, Alastair probably wasn’t far behind. Castiel snorted, throwing his concern to the wind and turned back to Jody, finally daring to look her in the eye, “I’m not afraid of expulsion,” he said.

She laughed heartily at that, and replied as she wiped at her eyes, “No, I don’t suppose you are, tough guy. You have a lot more to be scared of: a lifetime wasted, for example. I’m giving you an opportunity to make something of yourself. My advice is to take it without question. Second chances don’t come around often, and you, especially, won’t meet many people who’d willingly give you one; I suggest you shut up and get grateful.

“I don’t care if you don’t like it, you can curse me out all you want. But you turn up here at registration, and you leave at the end of the day, and you bring your best. I’m asking you for a week. I look at you and I see two bright, fiery young men, who could be anything they wanted to. And it breaks my heart to watch you both waste it all, as if it won’t mean a thing somewhere down the line. So, I’m not gonna let you.”

Castiel sighed and wriggled a little farther into his chair. Jody’s straight-shot words touched upon the writhing anxieties he’d been desperately trying to drown out. She was right though. Gabe was, too. He just needed his GED, sure, but then what? He’d get a job? He’d never spared a thought for a future career before, past the part-time minimum wage jobs he’d applied for back in August.

Gabriel had worked for a while bussing tables at the local diner, before he got himself fired for sleeping with the boss’s daughter, and their mom had a job at the Coca-Cola factory for a while, bottling and labelling, that was until they finally updated their machinery and she was made redundant. She lived mostly off benefits after that. But, what if Gabe was right, what if he could reach for something more? Something better? College, maybe. Something bright grew in his chest; small but burning at the edges of his anger and his hatred. It was so blindingly bright. He decided, however reluctantly, to trust it.

He didn’t miss Jody’s surprise at his acquiescence.  

“Alright,” she smiled, “and you, Dean?”

Castiel felt inexplicably bolder as he looked over to Dean, who seemed to be weighing his options too, if the teeth stuck in his bottom lip and the relentless tapping of his foot were any indication. Dean drew his arms closer about himself before nodding once.

Jody clapped her hands with a grin, “It’s agreed then. See you on Monday, boys.”

A peculiar sensation took over Castiel as he made to leave, a lightness, almost weightless. He resolutely ignored Dean and Jody, talking quietly amongst themselves and let the heavy wooden door slam behind him.

The final bell rang just as Castiel made it to his locker. Grabbing his backpack and pulling on his only jacket, a thin, drab hand-me-down from Gabe, he forced his way through the throng of students. The air that hit him was bitter, carrying on its breath the death of Summer. He caught up to Crowley at Alastair's car. The cigarette pinched between his lips lent the seventeen-year-old more wisdom than he had any business possessing. Alastair perched on the hood of his car, his keen eyes scanning the crowd spilling from the doors, his mouth pulled grim around his cigarette.

"Saw you and Twat-chester in the office, what was that about?" Crowley asked, casually adjusting the lapel of his black pea coat. Castiel shrugged, reaching out for the cigarette case he knew Crowley kept in his coat pocket.  “Could buy your own,” he grumbled, handing one to Castiel and leaning forward to light it with his own.

Castiel shrugged, “I could.”  He couldn’t.

Alastair turned sharply, predatory, his dark blue eyes caught by a movement. He choked out a laugh, smoke billowing from his lips, “Looks like Winchester’s not done with you, Crowley.” Castiel followed Alastair’s gaze. Dean stood at the edge of the parking lot. He was staring straight at Castiel, whatever meaning in that look was lost to the distance. Something deep inside Castiel quivered. He almost wanted to put out the cigarette, hide it. He couldn’t stand the idea of being any more  _ less _ than he already was in Dean’s eyes. Not that he cared what Dean thought of him. He didn’t.

“Piss off, he’s pining over Cassie,” Crowley teased, crushing his cigarette with the heel of his boot and grinning lazily towards Dean, whose brow furrowed over narrowed eyes.

“Who cares?” Castiel shrugged.

“He been eyeing you, Cas?” Alastair pressed, face serious with a nauseated scowl, “Tried dragging you down to his filth?”

Castiel faked a laugh, “S’not the first time I’ve caught him staring.”  He was sure he was going to vomit.

Alastair spat on the ground, “Faggot scum.”

Castiel’s stomach lurched. He’d hoped his flirting at the gatherings in the Lair had been enough to keep Alastair’s homophobic slurs directed at anybody but him. Alastair wasn’t dumb, and there was no way Castiel could keep up the facade for long. He’d attracted a lot of unwanted attention, being ‘fresh meat’ and all. The girls had cooed over his eyes, mussed their painted nails through his dark hair and marveled over the thickness of it. They complimented him, called him gorgeous, and Castiel was left hoping they wouldn’t notice the curling of his lip, the cold shivers their touch elicited. But it was tough shit, he had to swallow the pill, go along for the ride. He didn’t fancy being homeless a second time.

Dean’s eyes left them, Castiel realising with their loss that he’d been holding Dean’s gaze the entire time. He shook himself, casting paranoid glances to Alastair and Crowley. Thankfully, they were caught up in a conversation of their own and hadn’t seemed to notice the strange phenomenon that kept Castiel’s eyes focused on someone all three of them hated. When their eyes met, though, Castiel’s mind just went… quiet. It scared him.

They piled into the car, Crowley prodding and poking for answers, why Castiel was in the office with Dean of all people. Castiel saw no real harm in telling him. Crowley’s throaty cackle filled the car, grated against Castiel’s nerves. “It’s too much,” he wheezed, “a whole week with that bastard. God Cassie, what did you  _ do _ in your past life?”

Castiel rolled his eyes, “Shut up, Fergus.”

“Hey,” Crowley struck Castiel’s headrest, “only my mother gets to call me that.”

Castiel thought back to Dean’s face in the office, the tense line of his shoulders, the rigidity of his back and the clench of his white-knuckled fists. Maybe he was thinking a little too much about Dean. Those bruises though… he had to know. “Dean had been in a fight,” Castiel hedged, almost certain he knew the answer already, “was that-”

“Us?” Alastair grinned savagely, “Yeah.”

Castiel noticed a purpling on Alastair’s cheek, just beneath his temple. Castiel motioned towards it, “Looks like he got you back.”

Alastair turned, his expression closed and careful, “Fights good for a fairy.” Castiel swallowed with a click. Those eyes, narrowed and inscrutable scanned over his face before turning back to the road.

“So, Al, are we expecting Lilith this evening?” Crowley piped from the back. Castiel let all his breath out in a whoosh, unaware he’d been holding it. Alastair shrugged at the wheel, his mood instantly changing, like switching channels. Impossibly fast.

“Can’t stay away,” Alastair chuckled, “got her hooked.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised if she was already there keeping your dad company,” Crowley teased.

The car swerved suddenly as Alastair threw it into a parking spot, eliciting an undignified cry from Crowley as he was thrown across the back bench. Alastair whirled around in his seat to grab Crowley tight by the scruff of his coat. The angle was awkward, but Alastair’s iron grip was effortless.  

“You wanna try saying that again, Fergus?” he growled. Castiel pretended he wasn’t clenching his fists. Alastair’s face had gone puce. “What?” he sneered, pulling Crowley even closer, until the middle console dug deep into his stomach, “Lost your tongue now?”

Crowley swallowed heavily around a grunt, the sound deafening in the tense silence, “N-no. Sorry, Al, it was just a joke.”  Alastair sneered before pushing Crowley roughly back into his seat. He bounced with the force, rubbing at his stomach, thoroughly checked.

“Some fucking joke,” Alastair spat, pulling back onto the road without even checking his mirrors, his knuckles tight against the wheel. Castiel trained his eyes on the road ahead, didn’t dare look anywhere else for the rest of the ride.


	7. Camellia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Tracks for Chapter:  
> Gone - JR JR   
> With Arms Wide Open - Creed  
> New Day - Clem Leek  
> Sitting Room - Beta Radio  
> Never A Lover - Clem Leek

The weekend passed by in a blur of self-destructive hedonism. Castiel had a few hazy recollections; the discomfort of his flimsy disguise, the hot sticky mouths Castiel begrudgingly allowed against his neck and the sickly-sweet smell of perfume that accompanied them. Alastair’s burbling laugh, music that hurt his ears… a fever dream.

He stumbled out of the car on Monday morning, which rose frosty, the rustling leaves reddening on the trees that pressed close against the edges of the playing fields. It took Crowley giving his shoulder a pat with a murmured, “Good luck,” for Castiel to remember what this week held in store for him. His stomach lurched. Whether the cause was his raging hangover or the idea of a week of enforced proximity with Dean Winchester, he was unsure. Potentially both.

Principal Mills greeted Castiel fondly as he entered her office, her tone entirely too sunny for how irritable he felt.   “Alright, your teachers have worked incredibly hard to get together all your work for the week. It’s all right here,” she smiled, shuffling a large stack of papers. “So, your first period… Math,” she winced, “never my best subject.”

Her hands stopped, and she bent over her desk to look at him closer with narrowed eyes. “You don’t look so good, Castiel, are you feeling okay?”

Castiel waved her off, “‘S nothin’.”

Jody nodded slowly, crossed her arms atop her desk, fixing him with a knowing look, “Sticking to your limit never hurt anyone.” The door creaked loudly at Dean’s entrance, saving Castiel from having to answer to Jody’s warning. His hair was wet and stuck to his forehead, dripping down his neck and dampening the neck of his henley. Jody took Dean through the arrangements and handed him a similar stack of papers, which Dean accepted with a tentative smile that fell from his face as soon as his eyes settled on Castiel. Castiel turned, with an indulgent eye roll.

“Hand in your work at the end of each period,” Jody called after them, closing her office door.

There was one desk pushed against the wall, two chairs tucked close together. Dean groaned, “You gotta be kiddin’ me.”

Castiel sighed, too exhausted and nauseated to really bite at Dean, “You don’t  _ have _ to sit next to me. Or at the desk at all.”  Dean’s face was a picture of prideful disdain as he dragged a chair to the very opposite end of the table, still only an arm’s reach away and slumped into a deep sulk.

Castiel glanced through his workload, cursing softly to himself. It might as well have been written in Korean for all he could understand it. He felt a familiar stab of self-consciousness, burbling anxiety he’d come to associate with school. Gabriel’s voice in his head reminded him of his promise, though it failed to bolster his confidence. His stomach roiled. He restrained a groan, holding his aching head in his hands and breathing through the latest bout of nausea.

Dean grunted from across the table and at first, Castiel wasn’t sure there were even words involved, until Dean repeated them a little more firmly, “You okay?”

Castiel looked sharply at him, “Piss off.”

Dean relented with a whispered, “Fine,” and Castiel leaned back in his chair, overwhelmed by the impossible work innocently laid out in front of him, the weight of his promise.

Dean worked slowly, but he was consistent, his pile of completed sheets growing steadily. There was once a time where Castiel too put his head down and just worked. Because he was told to. “If he would only apply himself,” a myriad of teachers’ voices chorused, in a distant echo of a memory, “if only he saw his potential.” But, closer, louder came Gabriel’s insistent words, Jody’s speech, his second chance slipping between his fingers the longer he sat there twiddling his thumbs. With a heavy sigh, he reached tentatively for his own pile of work.

He began his calculations with a hazy memory of how they were done. He fell quickly into the rhythm of it, surprising himself as the knowledge flooding back. It still challenged him; he hadn’t seen some of these problems before. Nonetheless a peculiar rush shuddered through him upon completion of each one, loathe though he was to admit it.

By the time the hour was up, he’d completed around half the designated work, which Cas handed in to Jody (childishly rushing ahead of Dean to get through the door first) with his chest puffed full of pride he hadn’t felt in a long time.

“Alright… only half-done, so you can take the other half to work on at home. Thanks, Castiel. Dean? One completed piece of work, thank you for your service.”

Dean even had the gall to look smug as they left the office.

The next few periods passed in a similar fashion; Castiel doggedly pretending he wasn’t enjoying himself and Dean taking the business of ignoring him very seriously. A stony silence blanketed him and Dean, so thick he barely noticed Dean’s presence until Dean cleared his throat. Castiel snapped out of his reverie to glare at him.

“Um, you working on English right now?” Dean murmured, his brows furrowed deep, demonstrating even more clearly how much he didn’t want to be talking to Castiel.

“Yes,” Castiel replied tentatively, “why?”

Dean winced, fiddling with the edge of his page, rolling it between his thick fingers, “What have you said are the main themes of Hamlet?”

Castiel toyed with the idea of ignoring him entirely. Castiel’s understanding of Hamlet was hazy at best, and as it happened, he had been staring at the same question for ten minutes already. Though he hated the idea of talking about  _ anything _ with Dean, it would probably be useful. “I haven’t,” Castiel answered after due consideration, “I’m not sure about it either.”

Dean sighed heavily and turned back to his page, studying it with a frown. Castiel felt unsure of how to proceed, which felt unusual. Normally he’d barge straight ahead with a cutting remark or two, but in that moment, he stalled.

Dean didn’t speak again for long enough that Castiel had moved on to another question. “What about revenge?”

Castiel looked up at him and frowned, “What?”

“As one of the themes? Revenge?”

Castiel shrugged, “Maybe.” Dean frowned at his hands. “Maybe morality,” Castiel offered, without giving it too much thought, “you know, versus… I don’t know, justice I guess.”  Dean looked at him blankly, an eyebrow quizzically cocked. They stared at each other for some time, until the silence got the better of them and Dean mumbled his thanks, returning to his work.

The week passed much the same way. They greeted Jody in the morning and collected their work, sat at that same desk with only a few inches between their elbows, wrapped in a silence that had grown comfortable by the time Thursday rolled around.

Alastair had teased and joked, but honestly, Castiel was beginning to really enjoy his work. He liked the look on Jody’s face when he turned finished work. He’d never admit it out loud of course, and he always did his homework once Alastair and Crowley had gone out or to bed to avoid the risk of further teasing, but he would tell Gabriel all about it the next time he called, and he would thrill in making his brother proud.  

Friday morning brought a new addition to Principal Mills’s study hall. A girl with flaming hair and too many layers for the stifling heat of the office was sitting at Jody’s desk. Castiel and Dean eyed her warily.

“Good morning, boys.”

“Morning, Principal Mills,” they intoned.

“You might be wondering what the lovely Charlie Bradbury is doing in my office this morning,” she said, her hands delicately steepled at her mouth. Charlie smiled self-consciously and tugged her shoulder bag closer to her. It had the Hogwarts crest on the front surrounded by an assortment of Star Wars and rainbow-themed enamel pins.

“Charlie is, from this moment on, your after-school tutor.”

Dean’s face creased into a frown and his voice was gravel-deep when he spoke, “What does that mean?”

“I’m glad you asked, Dean, though it seems quite self-explanatory. You and Castiel will meet with Charlie on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays to ensure that the progress you’ve made under my supervision continues. You’ll be returning to your normal classes next week, and it would really put a downer on my term if I have to spend the entire time babysitting you both.”

“What if we have plans?” Castiel asked, the threat of teasing from Alastair and Crowley growing ever larger. He couldn’t think up enough excuses to justify going missing three days a week in the Lair.

Jody shrugged, “I guess you don’t have plans on Mondays, Wednesdays or Fridays.”

“Where are we going to meet?” Dean asked, his arms crossed tightly across his chest.

“Wherever you see fit.”

Charlie rose her hand, “The library, maybe? Or there’s a cool coffee shop I like to go to-”

“I wouldn’t be caught dead in the library,” Dean scoffed, just as Castiel complained about a coffee shop being too public.

“Or someone’s house, maybe?” Charlie shrugged. Dean and Castiel looked at one another. It was the first time Castiel had noticed the freckles that dotted Dean’s nose and cheekbones. All he could think of was that Alastair’s basement was off-limits, as was Missouri’s house. Dean would have to allow him there, and then Castiel would have to face Missouri.

“No. No way. He’s not coming to mine,” Dean grumbled, “he knows why.”

Castiel shrugged and made up some fake excuse to cover himself, “My house is a mess and my mom gets stressed out with guests.” It was at least half-true. Jody turned to him with a deeply-carved frown.

Charlie winced, “My house is a no-go, too.”

Dean glared at Castiel, as if willing him to change his mind, but Castiel wouldn’t budge. There was no way he’d host a study group three times a week in Alastair’s basement. Not only would it ruin his flimsy standing amongst the group, but it could also lose him his temporary home. Dean sighed heavily, defeat coloring his features, “Fine. Mine it is.”

“Wonderful!” Jody cried, clapping her hands, “Thank you, Charlie, you can go back to class. I trust you’ll make arrangements with these two in your own time for tonight.”

“Of course, Principal Mills,” Charlie said, waving shyly at Castiel and Dean as she left.

Castiel spent the rest of his day sitting across from Dean, wondering bitterly if he was being punished. Three times a week he’d have to spend with Dean, outside of school. It occurred to him that Jody hadn’t even specified just how long this study group would last. Surely not to the end of the year. Surely.  

Castiel was anxious about returning to Missouri’s home. It buzzed in his stomach, made it hard to feel anything else. Except, of course, the apprehension about having to explain to his new, less than understanding friends, exactly where he’d be spending his time.

Crowley was waiting for Castiel at his locker by the time class was out on Monday. He found it extraordinary, how he never really looked his age. While everyone else deemed jeans and hoodies acceptable, Crowley was always bedecked in sharply cut button up shirts, his faithful black pea coat rarely left his shoulders. His shoes were smart too, polished so fiercely they glared even in the dark. People had teased him, or so Crowley had claimed, but it lasted no more than a few hours into his first day. Crowley had a way to wrest any situation into his control.

“Hey,” Castiel said as he reached his locker, fumbling with the lock, whose combination he still hadn’t quite remembered, “tell Al I’ll be in late tonight.”

“Why?” Crowley grinned, “are we doing dinner?”

Castiel rolled his eyes, glaring until Crowley’s smile dragged back into his customary frown, “No. Principal’s got me with Charlie Bradbury for some study group.”

“Who?” Crowley scowled, “You’re not seriously considering _ going, _ are you?”

Castiel finally wrenched his locker door open, diving inside to avoid having to answer that question, which apparently was answer enough.

“I can’t believe this. It’s very simple, just don’t go,” Crowley scowled as Castiel packed his things from his locker. He stopped to glare at Crowley for a moment which only earned him a sharp bark of laughter.  “Oh please, as if you’re actually scared of Principal Mills. Just tell her you guys met up, bribe... what’s-her-face, and the two of us will go get high at the park.”

“What about Al?” Castiel bit back, guessing that a private hang out without Alastair probably wouldn’t go down too well for either of them.

Crowley shrugged, flippant, “He doesn’t own us, we can do things without him.”

Castiel bit his lip. An evening with Crowley, hell almost anything, would be better than spending any amount of time with Dean Winchester. He wouldn’t have to see Missouri either, he wouldn’t have to return to that house, or endure the weight of Dean’s glares or the oppressive silence that would inevitably fall between them.

But if he  _ did  _ go to this study group, he might actually have a shot at a future that didn’t look like a carbon copy of his past. He  _ could _ blow it off tonight, or even every night, make up some elaborate lie if Jody asked… but he would have to provide proof of improvement if he wanted any chance of graduating with his class.

“Have a good night,” he said, Crowley’s face clouding over as he sighed. He waved a dismissive hand at Castiel and stalked away without another word. Castiel closed his locker, still unsure if he could call Crowley a friend.

“Hey.” Castiel whirled around to find Charlie Bradbury standing beside him, a pensive look on her face as her eyes followed Crowley out the double doors.

“You know him?” She asked as the doors sunk closed. Castiel nodded. Charlie’s face turned concerned.

“Guy gives me the willies,” she shuddered, “I told Dean I’d meet him by the gate,” she continued, face brightening, “thought I’d swing by to pick you up, you ready?” Castiel frowned, wondering how she even knew where his locker was, but he nodded, stuffing the last of his books under his arm as he swung his locker shut.

Charlie talked the whole way to Missouri’s, compensating for the stony silence Castiel and Dean had brokered between them. She rattled on endlessly about… something. To be honest, Castiel wasn’t paying any attention at all to her. The dread of seeing Missouri buzzed so loud in his ears it deafened him to anything else. Hopelessness rose like a wave inside him. He missed Gabriel, he missed his home, he even missed his mom to some degree. His life over the past few months was finally catching up to him, and it sent him whirling in an endless haze of confusion and doubt .

He’d let himself be swept up by circumstance, feigning his independence, but the truth was Castiel was scared. His life wasn’t recognisable anymore. There was nothing  _ familiar _ , nobody he truly  _ knew. _ Deep down, he was afraid of what would happen to him. His heart hadn’t stopped racing since the crash, his dreams a constant reminder of that horror. He woke most nights with sweat pooled in his palms, gasping into the dark.

Missouri was waiting for them on the front porch as they arrived. Castiel steeled himself, braced for whatever she could throw at him. She stood, stone still with her thick arms folded tightly across her ample chest. Her eyebrow was raised quizzically as she stared at him. Her eyes softened as they drifted to Charlie, a smile spreading bright.

“Can it be Charlie Bradbury? Last I saw you, you still had braces,” she gushed as Dean and Charlie crossed the threshold, “Thanks again for doin’ this. You tell me how mama’s doin’ later, okay?”  

Castiel lingered at the bottom of the steps, unsure of how to proceed. “You gon’ stand there all night?” she asked.  Castiel shrunk where he stood, he could feel it. “I got one thing to say to you, Castiel, honey,” Missouri said, her voice gentle as she made her way down the steps, “I’m willin’ to put all that unpleasantness behind us. I know what you’ve been through. I’m not excusing what you did, ‘cause you were vile, but… I’m sayin’ I can forgive you with time. Provided you prove yourself worthy.”

Castiel snorted, “How do I do that?”

“Think of it like a fresh start. Now come inside, them books ain’t going to study themselves.” The knot around him, inside him, as much a part of him as any limb, loosened just a hair as Castiel climbed the steps, and entered Missouri’s house for the third time.

Charlie ducked through to the living room, where she gasped in surprise, her eyes trained on the bunch of rabbit feet hung from the ceiling, roaming around the tarot cards on the walls. “This place is awesome,” she laughed, running her fingers over the bunches of dried flowers propped in strange-shaped vials on the TV stand and turning a grin back to Missouri, who waved before ducking into her office. Charlie settled herself at the coffee table and reached up to her elbows into her bag.

“So, uh, Principal Mills gave me a bunch of stuff to fill you both in on. Good news is: you both struggle in similar areas,” she let out a bark of nervous laughter, “you’re both still lagging behind in class work and general understanding of subject matter-”

“Geez, Bradbury,” Dean sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he joined her, “what’s the bad news?”

“Um, the bad news is that we have a semester to catch you both up on the stuff you’re missing. You’ve both been at other schools before summer, and while that wouldn’t be a problem for people who show up to their classes…”

“I show up!” Dean protested, his neck reddening beneath his hand.

“And then promptly get kicked out again,” Charlie mumbled, “it’s fine! It’s… we’ll get through it. You guys… have only got me,” she mumbled, “this a terrible idea.”

Castiel frowned, “Principal Mills clearly trusted you with the task; she wouldn’t have asked if she didn’t think you were up to it.” Dean and Charlie stared at him wide-mouthed s and Castiel quickly lowered his head again. He didn’t blame them, honestly, he himself wondered where that had just come from.

“Right, yes. Well… I’ve divided the course material for your shared courses, but there are a couple of things that you guys study independently. I’m happy to meet you guys alone maybe? To catch up on those?”

“What about your work?” Dean asked.

“My wo-,” Charlie laughed, throwing her head back, her long red hair falling from her narrow shoulders, pooling down her back, “You don’t need to worry about me, I’ve been studying for finals all summer.”

Castiel smiled then. A genuine smile. He liked Charlie, she was good. He glanced at Dean whose eyes quickly darted to the wall behind Castiel’s head. He might have imagined the feeling of Dean’s eyes on him in that moment, but he couldn’t be certain. The attention unnerved him.

Charlie cleared her throat, pulling the boys’ attention back to her, “So, Principal Mills informed me that you two-”

“Hate each other,” Dean supplied, smiling tightly, “yeah.”

“Well, you have no choice, so… suck it up,” Charlie stammered, “let’s get to work.”

An odd contentment settled over Castiel’s shoulders as he worked. This third time in Missouri’s quaint little home was nothing that he expected. Dean’s head was bowed low, and if he talked to Charlie, it was in a quiet murmur. Everything settled in a delicate balance, and the tension in his shoulders began to lessen. He rubbed at them as he worked.

Just as the light began to darken outside, Charlie gathered her things. “This has been,” she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, “unexpected. Kinda cool. Here again on Monday?” Dean looked briefly to Castiel, who looked impassively back at him. While it was an unlikely choice, they didn’t really have any other place to go. He shrugged by way of an answer.

“Sure, Charlie. And thanks,” Dean said, getting up to walk her to the door, “seriously, you’re awesome.”

“Castiel, honey?” Missouri appeared in the doorway, “can I see you for a moment?” This was it then, back to the drawing board. He stepped hesitantly into the kitchen, remembering Missouri’s gentle voice explaining the rules he’d broken easy as glass. “I wanted to check in,” she began, leaning against the counter, “make sure you’re safe, off the streets.”

Castiel shrugged, “I’ve got somewhere.”

Missouri’s shoulders relaxed with her sigh, which Castiel found unusual. Why did she care so much? He wasn’t worth her time, he’d thought he’d made that exceptionally clear. “‘Got somewhere’ as in somewhere with walls? And heating?” Castiel scoffed and nodded. He wondered if Alastair’s parents were even aware he was staying in their basement.

“Where?”

Castiel narrowed his eyes, “I-”

“I’m not gon’ turn up on the doorstep,” Missouri laughed, “I just want to make sure you ain’t lyin’ to me.”

“Downtown, with someone from school.” Missouri nodded, but still looked skeptical. “His parents are there too, so…” It wasn’t a complete lie. Missouri nodded slowly as if turning the idea over in her head, trying to work out just who it was that would be crazy enough to put him up.

“Alright, well, you take care of yourself, alright? I’ll see you on Monday.” Castiel nodded and gave a small wave as he collected his stuff and made for the door. Dean stood in the doorway, awkwardly stepping aside to let Castiel pass.


	8. Heather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Tracks for Chapter:  
> Never A Lover - Clem Leek  
> Notion - Kings of Leon  
> Already Gone - Wild Rivers  
> Into The Wind - Clem Leek  
> Strange Darling - Miya Folick  
> Here Too Far - Beta Radio

 

Castiel returned to his classes over the following week, armed with his study notes from Charlie and completed work to hand in to his teachers, who received them with barely-contained surprise. He kept to himself in class, kept his head down and did the work assigned to him. Nobody noticed him, and he barely noticed anybody, and that was how he liked it. He didn’t share any classes with Charlie, and Crowley never showed up to any, so he was alone whether he liked it or not. Since Jody’s study hall, he and Dean had at least stopped scowling at one another during English Lit. Castiel concentrated his efforts on Hamlet, scribbled notes until his hand cramped. If Dean was doing the same thing, Castiel didn’t have the capacity to notice.

He continued to meet Alastair and Crowley at the bleachers at lunch, refusing Crowley’s hip flask any time it was passed around. As much fun as drinking himself into a small oblivion had been enjoyable, if he had any hope of keeping his promises, he had to start being responsible for himself. It proved difficult, and sometimes he slipped, especially on the weekends, but he tried his damnedest to keep the two worlds separated. Crowley noticed the change almost immediately and there had been an imperceptible shift in their tentative friendship. When Castiel would stand at the sound of the bell and head back to class, he could feel their incredulous stares on his back. He shrugged it off like a cloak.

It was Friday, lunchtime. Castiel perched on the bleachers, digging into the food that Alastair picked up for them. His mouth was salty from the fries, his lips greasy. He smoked one of Crowley’s cigarettes, breaking up the bitter smoke with the sweetness of the coke he sipped from a cup the size of his head. Alastair sloped against the bleachers, peering at everyone who passed through the ever-present cloud of thick smoke that billowed from his mouth.

Crowley huddled in his pea coat, huffing irritably, ranting about the letters that had been sent to his parents back in England demanding that he start showing up to his classes, or they would have to send him away. Castiel tried gentle encouragement but was met with a confused glare and a short bark of laughter.  “Just gimme your notes, goody-two-shoes,” Crowley grumbled, “I’ll copy them up. And don’t look at me like that, makes you look like a wuss.”

Castiel schooled his expression, rifling around in his bag for his notes and handing them over, “Not sure what use they’d be to you.” Crowley shrugged. Castiel rolled his eyes as he asked about the extent of Crowley’s missing work. Crowley took a thoughtful drag on his cigarette, mouth drawn down at the corners. His dark eyes squinted in effort.

“It’s not a difficult question,” Castiel said impatiently.

“Oh, I know,” Crowley replied, flippant, “I’m just trying to recall the last time I handed something in. Something tells me… must have been last year… maybe October?”

Castiel stared, flabbergasted. He himself hadn’t been great at keeping up with school in the past, he’d be the first to admit. And maybe, if he’d known of Crowley’s shortcomings before his drastic change of heart he’d be half-way impressed. But now he’d caught a glimpse of the other side of that coin, it all sounded ridiculous. Childish, even.  “You’re more than a year behind,” he intoned, “you’re screwed.”

Crowley scowled, looking back down at Castiel’s notes, “I don’t know where that stick up your arse has come from, or who put it there, but I invite you to remove it.”

Castiel laughed, chewing a little on the end of the cigarette. They were menthol and he liked the fresh taste.

Crowley pouted, “I’m serious, you’re no fun anymore.” He rifled through more of Castiel’s notes, a lot of them Charlie’s handiwork. She’d made him and Dean worksheets and quizzes and managed to condense subject matters to single sides of A4 in a way that was truly astounding. Castiel liked her a lot. Crowley’s brow furrowed at the sight of them and Castiel tensed.

“Where did all these notes even come from?” he asked, “Is this that ridiculous study group?”

Castiel glanced at Alastair, wary that he’d overheard. But Alastair was paying them no mind. His gaze was caught on something over Castiel’s shoulder. He recognised the glint in Alastair’s eyes as he straightened and began to stalk. Crowley glanced at Castiel before stubbing out his cigarette and following, his question left unanswered. Castiel turned, catching sight of their target at once.

After all, he shone like a beacon.

Dean, that was, leant against the wall by the bike racks, talking animatedly into his cellphone, smile so wide, Castiel could see it from where he stood, torn by indecision. He slung his backpack over his shoulder and followed slowly, hanging back from the pack.

“Fag-chester!” Alastair called. Castiel saw Dean tense against the wall though his face was calm as he hung up the phone and stuffed it into his pocket. Dean’s eyes widened as they fell on Castiel, gave him pause. He stood frozen, still numerous feet away from his ‘friends’, who closed the distance with single-minded determination.

There was no pretense, no warning: Alastair simply reeled an arm back and launched it straight at the cut of Dean’s jaw. Dean’s eyes snapped from Castiel’s, filling with rage almost instantly. Alastair didn’t stop, even as Dean fought back. Just shoved and pummeled and spat. Crowley was there, too, a grim look on his features as he kicked at Dean’s shins, pushed at him so Alastair could get another shot at his face.

Dean’s green eyes found Castiel then, held for only a second before he was pushing back, hitting back. Castiel couldn’t be sure what pushed him between Alastair and Dean in that moment, some force perhaps, something outside of himself. Because there was no way in hell he would save Dean Winchester on his own accord. He could only be sure of his hands, one on each of their chests, holding them apart.

“Stop,” he demanded, keeping his voice low as he felt the hammering of Dean’s heart against his palm.

Alastair snarled, his face turning ugly with it, “Move.”  

Castiel shook his head, swallowing heavily. Dean seemed just as confused, but his breathing was beginning to slow. Crowley laughed, “You can’t be serious.”

Castiel levelled him with a glare, one he’d learned from Gabriel, “That’s enough. He didn’t do anything.”

Alastair leaned forward, bending Castiel’s wrist back on itself where he held him at a distance, “Gotta keep dirty little queers in their place,” he hissed.

Dean laughed, incredulous, “What?”

“You heard me, princess,” Alastair spat, shoving Castiel aside with a grunt before making for the bleachers with a seething hunch to his shoulders. Crowley’s expression was unreadable when he looked to Castiel, leaving with another glare towards Dean, slumped against the wall.

Castiel frowned, expecting to feel confused, but instead he felt… calm. Quiet. He peeled his hand from Dean’s chest without another word, straightening his jacket as he left, the bell sounding across the parking lot.

Castiel felt Dean’s eyes on him throughout study group that evening. Even Charlie had noticed, looking warily between the two of them. Castiel wasn’t about to explain himself, but he knew what he’d done was right, if a little odd. Alastair had no reason to wail on Dean, except the unfounded suspicion that he was gay, which made Castiel’s blood boil. Castiel wondered just how many times they’d fought with Dean, remembering his first meeting with Jody… she’d said four fights. It was excessive, unnecessary. Just throwing weight around. He and Gabriel had always taken down assholes just like Alastair, and Castiel chalked it up to pure instinct.

He’d done it because it was right, not because it was Dean. It could’ve been anybody.

Castiel was hesitant as he returned to the Lair that night, his whole body tensed and ready for the inevitable confrontation with Alastair. When Castiel crossed the threshold, the cloud of smoke was accompanied with Alastair’s voice, reedy and quiet, the most dangerous. It sent shivers racing up his spine to nestle at the back of his head.

“Come on in, Cas, we’ve got to talk.” Alastair was sprawled on the sofa, Crowley in his usual armchair, nursing a joint and a glass of whiskey. “So, Cas,” Alastair drawled, smoke billowing from his thin lips. He handed Castiel a beer, “I need you to start payin’ rent.”

Castiel almost dropped the Margiekugel in his hand. What? He’d been prepared to defend his actions that afternoon but this? He kept his voice careful, like a negotiator, “You never mentioned it before.”

Alastair shrugged, taking a long drag of his beer, “I’m mentioning it now.”

Crowley had the good grace to look regretful where he sat. He looked between Castiel and Alastair, waiting for Castiel’s answer. The beer fizzed gently in the bottle and Castiel took a sip to steady himself, bolster the impression that he was completely calm and not moments from shaking apart. Surely Alastair knew that Castiel had no money to pay him. Surely, he knew that Castiel was desperate. Alastair raised his eyebrows expectantly and Castiel took another sip, stalling. He should’ve just let Dean get beaten up. _Dammit._

“I… I can’t,” Castiel murmured, all illusions broken, “I’ve got nothing.”

Alastair spread his hands, effortlessly threatening in his calm complacency, “See, the problem is I need it, Cas, and you’re living here scot-free.”

“I’m grateful,” Castiel rushed to calm the situation, “really I am, but… I don’t have anything to give.” The desperate tone in his voice made him queasy.

“You got a funny way of showing your gratitude,” Alastair snarled, his eyes hardening with his jaw. Castiel winced.  “You pay me,” Alastair said, “or you’re out.” And there it was. His punishment. A battle Alastair knew he couldn’t win.

“How much?” Castiel asked, hoping against hope that this was some cruel joke.

Alastair shrugged, though his eyes flashed fierce, “You’ve been here for two months now, so… let’s call it a grand.”

“A grand? Al-”

“Can you do that or not?” Alastair’s expression darkened, watching greedily for any sign of fear. Panic licked at Castiel’s gut, sweat prickled at his hairline. Crowley shuffled uncomfortably in his seat, fixing his gaze to his lap, fingers tapping his glass. Alastair knew. Castiel defended a suspected homosexual, and now he was out. Alastair knew what Castiel’s answer would be. He knew, and he was going to do this anyway. Castiel said nothing; wouldn’t admit his failure out loud.  Alastair nodded slowly, “Have it your way.”

“Al-”

“I’m goin’ out. Don’t let me find you here when I get back. Crowley, you comin’?” Crowley got up without a word, the obedient lap dog, chucking a sympathetic look towards Castiel as he left.

The room went quiet, and Castiel stood still, feeling that simmering anger soar to a boil.

He drained the beer in his hand and threw it against the wall, watching it smash without interest. His feet had made the decision to move before he’d even thought of where he was going and then he was up the stairs, bursting into Alastair’s family home.

Castiel stood in the hallway with his backpack, motionless and listening for any hint that Alastair’s parents were home. When the house greeted him only with silence, he moved with purpose, searching for supplies. Alastair may have thrown him out, but Castiel wasn’t leaving with nothing.

Castiel had only ever been in the Lair, and was surprised to find the upstairs daintily decorated, which amused him. There were cheesy family portraits in which Alastair’s hair was combed to one side, standing proud and serious with his conservative parents. Alastair’s father looked mighty, but his mother looked worn-out; Castiel could trace the look throughout the series of photographs that littered the walls. She seemed powerless.

He searched cupboards, and filled his backpack with tinned fruits and cookies, cramming them between his textbooks and notes. Heading upstairs, he found a closet filled with camping supplies. Castiel laughed as he shouldered a sleeping bag and flashlight. He considered the tent for a moment, but he could only carry so much and there was no way Alastair’s parents wouldn’t notice its absence. He headed back downstairs and threw on a big duffle coat, guessing it belonged to Alastair’s father. He stuffed a hat and a pair of thick gloves into the pockets, lined with the debris of a stranger’s life which crinkled under his fingers.

He found was a jar of cash and change at the back of the liquor cabinet. Castiel stared at it for a long time, finally pulling out fifty dollars, stuffed it deep into the pocket of his stolen coat and replaced the jar back where he’d found it. It was bad, yes, but it was also necessary. He was homeless again and he had to take what he could get. He didn’t take the whole jar and what he took hardly made a dent to the total sum. He shook off his guilt impatiently and looked around once more before heading back to the basement to pack the rest of his things.

His hand hovered over Alastair’s cannabis box, dark wood with a skull carved into the lid, before he convinced himself that it would only serve Alastair right. It was risky, Alastair would know right away what Castiel had done, but part of him didn’t care. Spite fueled his actions as he stuffed half the stash in a pair of socks before closing his bag, turning to scan the basement once more before he let the door slam shut.

He stalked from Alastair’s home, impotent anger pushing insistently at his back. He walked fast, breathing heavily, his hands balled into fists around the straps of his backpack. He was grateful for the coat, a chill gathering as the last light of day faded and shadows stretched towards him. As Castiel walked, knowing he was heading for Missouri’s home and hating himself for it, he caught a glimpse of something, something that glinted in his periphery, setting it apart from the sidewalk or the siding on the surrounding houses. Castiel stopped, glancing about him.

There it was again.

Across the street, he saw a chain-link fence, rust-worn and limp, choked with deadened leaves. He crossed the street, anger melting to curiosity. There was a tear at the base, and Castiel checked he was truly alone before leaning down to inspect it.

On the other side lay a large expanse of overgrown land. Castiel couldn’t tell what it was past the tangled vines and tall grass that poked its fingers between the twisted metal gaps. He pulled apart the opening, careful of the sharp ends of the wire and crouched through. There was a hush about the place, like it was waiting. He might have been its first visitor in years.

 

Inspecting closer, he noticed the remnants of an old allotment; rotting planter boxes sat barely visible through the brambles and garbage that littered the ground. There was a pile of charred wood in the far corner covered in dead leaves, the forgotten remains of a shed perhaps. A breeze whispered soft through the branches of the trees that overlooked from the street. Castiel kicked a can of cheap beer against the fence, listening to it rattle and wobble with the impact.

“What a shit hole,” he murmured to himself.

Along the back of the garden ran a hedge, dark, broad leaves and branches tangling and reaching every which way. Seemingly the only living thing there. Little plastic pots, brown and black had been shoved into the corner, huddling beneath the protection of the hedge and full of cobwebs. Castiel approached slowly, running his hands along its length until he came to a dip, where there stood a statue: a naked cherub with its eyes turned up towards the sky. It had a flower crown buried within the stone curls of its hair. Castiel ran his finger pensively over the figure’s nose.

The leaves rustled more insistently with the wind, gathering packets, cans and bottles, piling them about his feet. As he bent to inspect one of the rotting planter boxes, a blackbird began to sing. Castiel looked up, watching the bird watch him from his perch on the bobbing branch of a tree. Castiel wrapped the heavy coat about himself a little tighter and shivered as the wind whipped ever harder around him. The bird hopped down and landed on the far edge of one of the boxes, its head tilted to the side.

Castiel tilted his head, too, narrowing his eyes.  “What?” he said, “What do you want?”

The blackbird hopped a little closer, bead-dark eyes never leaving Castiel’s face. It was an unusual sensation that settled in Castiel’s chest. Curiosity, fear, familiarity, he wasn’t sure. The bird ruffled its feathers, puffing out its little body and picked its way easily through the garbage to land by his feet. It dipped its charcoal head amidst the sprawling, dead plants and pulled a worm from the water-starved soil.

Castiel bent down and rummaged through the same twisted foliage to get to the soil beneath. A little shoot thrust itself from the earth, vibrant green, deafeningly alive amongst the decay and death that hung in the air. He packed the ground down around it, pushing at the debris to give it room. He stood, wiping his hands on his jeans. The blackbird seemed pleased as it hopped across the newly cleared soil, singing gaily to itself.

Castiel made his way to the back of the plot, opting for the shelter of the hedge. There was a bench there, tucked up in front of the cherub in the leaves. There, Castiel set out the sleeping bag, knowing that being elevated from the ground would help keep him a little warmer, and clambered inside, drawing his legs to his chest as he sat. The blackbird watched him for a time, head cocked to one side before it took wing to the sky, silently landing in the tree whose branches overhung from the sidewalk.

In the still of the night Castiel’s thoughts began to spiral, like insects crawling from beneath a log. He felt their sticky feet over his skin, flinched as they bit into him, tore at him. They told him what a mess he had got himself into. They told him he’d never be good enough. He’d end up just like his mother, or worse, like the losers she dated; those pot-bellied, strong-fisted men who smelled of beer and talked in sharp, meaningless words. He curled his arms tightly against his legs, pressing them into his chest as if to stop the pain that wracked him there. As if making himself a smaller target could stop his mind. _Nobody will ever love you_ , it whispered, _you’ll die alone, and nobody will ever know. Nobody will care._

The voices sounded hauntingly like Dean. He’d spat those same words at Castiel, in front of Missouri’s front door. Venomous. True.

His throat burned, and his chest ached, but still Castiel did not cry. He never cried. He held himself tight enough to bruise and waited with bated breath for his stormy thoughts to pass.

There was a sound, footsteps. Just beyond the fence. He started, staring hard between the gaps from where he sat, curled up on the bench, waiting for an innocent nobody to walk past and stop the hammering of his heart. Nothing happened. His hair prickled along his forearms. Something was watching from the dark.

Castiel waited awhile longer, huddled in his layers, but nothing moved. He shook his head, slamming his fist into the bench, cursing as the impact sent pain coursing up his wrist. Reaching into his bag, he pulled out the stolen cannabis, rolling a joint with shuddering fingers, and lighting it with a match from a packet he’d taken from Alastair’s kitchen drawer. His hands shook; the invasive feeling roaring white noise in his ears. But after a few tokes, the fog he was looking for settled and quieted his mind. It calmed the storm in his chest, relaxed the muscles that had tensed in his fear.

He strained his hearing, but everything was too foggy. His brain quiet. His eyes unable to truly focus on the dark around him. He closed his eyes, concentrated on his breathing, the feeling of the bench beneath him, solid and real. It had been a twig snapping, probably nothing more a cat stalking the poor blackbird, who’d since flown off.

This was the sort of neighbourhood with a lot of cats, he reasoned, thoughts burbling pleasantly once more, back in his own grasp. Lots of cats making lots of noise in the dark. As if proving him right, a chorus of cats began to yowl and hiss, the sounds echoing down the street. He sighed in relief, giggling a little to himself. He stretched beneath the cover of the sleeping bag and leaned his head back against the arm of the bench, seeking solace in the stars gleaming distant and cold above him. Whatever that paranoia had been before fell away as his eyes closed. He fell asleep with a pleasant buzz in his limbs and a peaceful mind.

Castiel woke the next morning, a thin layer of dew dampening his hair and face. He groaned, stretching his shoulders, sore from the unyielding wood of the bench. It was early morning, half six when he checked his rapidly dying phone. There was a message from Claire.

_Are you around? I’m bored, let’s hang out._

With a fond smile, Castiel quickly gathered his things, stuffing the sleeping bag underneath the bench, ignoring the growl of hunger ratting in his stomach. It was the perfect excuse to make himself scarce for the day. He shouldered his bag and ducked through the fence.

_I’m on my way,_ he replied, _meet me outside the shelter._

He made his way to the bus stop on the main street, running to catch the bus before it pulled away. He boarded, gasping, handing over the $50 note he stole the night before. The bus driver looked at him, annoyed, exhausted, counting out his change coin by coin as Castiel apologised under his breath. Thanks to the weed, Castiel had slept deeply, but he still felt tired beneath his skin. He wriggled down in the seat, one by the window and rested his forehead against the gently shuddering glass, watching Janesville disappear before his eyes.

Castiel could see the Madison shelter from the bus stop just over the road. He watched Claire’s face light up as she waved enthusiastically at him, dressed in her shabby purple zip-up and ratty jeans. She fell into his arms, holding him tight. Castiel realised with an ache, that it had been a long time since anybody had been so close to him without swinging their fists. Claire’s hair smelled like the soap from the shelter. “You good?” he asked, holding her out at arm’s length to look her over. She batted his hands away with a snort.

“Just peachy,” she smiled, “let’s get breakfast. I want pancakes.” They talked as they walked to the diner, all the time in the world with the city only just starting to come alive around them. People in suits running to catch taxis and buses, others stumbling down the street on their way home. The air began to erupt with car horns, and the roads burst into dizzying activity.

“So,” Castiel said, warming his hands in the pockets of the heavy coat, where he meticulously counted the change that rattled there, “did you hear back about the Wendy’s job?”

Claire’s mouth tipped into a frown, accompanied by a bitter eye roll, “Fuck Wendy.”

Castiel snorted, “You’ve tried other places, right?”

Claire nodded, her feet scuffing against the sidewalk, “Maggie’s really been pushing me. At this point I’ll take whatever I can get.”

“Anybody would be lucky to have you,” Castiel said, draping an arm across her shoulders.

Claire laughed, “Mostly turning me away, you know, since I’m fourteen with no GED.” Castiel’s smile turned sad. It was hard to argue with that. “S’okay,” Claire continued, bumping her shoulder into his arm, “I make being positive hard for everyone.”

They were seated in a booth, the restaurant still sleepy and slow. Coffee for Castiel, a monstrous hot chocolate for Claire. With Castiel’s return ticket sat snug in his pocket, the rest of his pilfered money was his and his alone. He wanted to keep enough to grab long-lasting supplies; if he was going to be in that allotment for some time, he’d need more than the tinned fruit he stole. Maybe some jerky.

Claire counted out her money on the tabletop, almost bit him when he offered to cover her. “I’m saving, Cas, don’t worry. Got a little jar and everything. I can spare a short stack.”

Castiel nodded, he knew better than to keep arguing. Vanilla spice for him, heinous-looking cupcake pancakes for Claire. “Are you trying to get diabetes?”

Claire buried herself in her hot chocolate, cup almost as big as her head, with a satisfied smile. “Are you kidding? Real sugar? You must’ve forgotten the wholegrain, five-a-day diet at the shelter. You take it when you can, kid.” Castiel scoffed, their food arriving hot and sweet. Castiel tried very hard not to swallow it whole. “So,” Claire said around a bulging mouthful, “how’s lawyer lady? You like her yet?”

Castiel muffled his answer in his coffee cup, until Claire put her fork down with a despondent look. “What did you do?”

Castiel flinched, “Why is that everyone’s first question?”

“She was crazy-nice when I spoke to her, so I’m just assuming it’s your fault.”

Claire was right of course, Castiel knew that, but he’d be damned if he- wait, what? “She called you?”

Claire cocked an eyebrow, “Yeah, she’s helping find some family members who can adopt me. Why the surprise?” Why would Missouri even think of helping Claire now he was gone? It was a condition of him staying with her, after all, she had no obligation to stay true to that… especially after all he had done. “You got kicked out, huh?” Claire said, her lack of surprise on the verge of insulting.

Castiel nodded, “A guy from school took me in for a while but… last night he asked for rent, and…”

“And now you’re homeless again. Fuck’s sake, Cas,” Claire sighed, her cutlery landing on her plate with a frustrated clang. “You had something good,” she continued, her voice firm and bright eyes sincere, “and you threw it away, for what? Because you’re too proud to accept help? Can’t admit when you’re in the wrong?”

Castiel stared at her, his thoughts zeroing in: how the hell did she know?

“Am I close?”

Castiel scoffed, “Yeah.”

“Tell me,” Claire insisted, leaving her sugar-coma breakfast in favor of crossing her arms tightly over her chest. Like his mom would do when he and Gabriel successfully got into the cookie jar. Back when they could _afford_ a cookie jar.

He told her everything. He always told her everything, mostly because it was easier than lying to her. She had an uncanny understanding of people, read them easy as the back of a cereal box. It was easy to forget how young she was. That, and she was the only person aside from Gabe that Castiel trusted. She was his friend. He told her about the study sessions and Alastair’s Lair, defending Dean and finding the allotment. And she sat very patiently through his story, sneaking little nibbles of her pancakes pinched between her fingers, topped with chipped black nail polish.

“Dean sounds cool,” she said, thoughtfully, “doesn’t seem like you hate him.” Castiel frowned, eliciting a sharp bark of laughter. She cocked a brow, “Dude, you talked about him for like five minutes straight. I didn’t need to know about his eye color to get the whole picture.” Castiel’s cheeks flushed.

He couldn’t deny that if he’d met Dean under any other circumstances, he’d be nursing quite the crush. As it was, Castiel… didn’t hate him, per say, more of an all-consuming dislike. He repeated his internal affirmation from yesterday: _I defended him because it was the right thing to do, not because it was Dean_ . _It could’ve been anybody. It could’ve been anybody._

Indulgent breakfasts sitting heavy in their stomachs, Castiel and Claire walked the city streets, going where they pleased, swapping stories in the park, under the shade of a large oak tree. Castiel laughed easily for the first time since his separation from Gabriel. The day was over too soon, however, and as the sun began to set, Castiel walked Claire back to the shelter, waited in line with her until he knew she had a bed for the night.

She clung tightly to him as they said goodbye, and Castiel could’ve sworn he saw something a lot like tears brimming in her eyes. Castiel promised to keep in touch, and with that, he shouldered his bag (now full to the brim and heavy with snacks) and boarded the bus back to Janesville. He squeezed his rucksack close to his chest, resting his chin on the top and trying to will his heart content. He didn’t have a roof over his head, but he had somewhere to sleep, and he had a friend like Claire, who genuinely cared about him. He tried to concentrate on that, instead of the helplessness that crouched patiently, waiting for him to fall asleep.

The allotment was dark when he finally returned, and he stumbled over the trash and the rotting wood to the bench, under which he fetched his stolen sleeping bag and clambered in. He tore into a packet of jerky, chewing a few strips until his jaw ached, before falling into a restless sleep beneath the stars.


	9. Hyacinth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Tracks for Chapter:  
> Tangled Walker - This Is The Kit  
> Dreamer - Isbells  
> An Opening - Charlie Cunningham  
> Twentytwofourteen - The Album Leaf

Missouri had these moments of startling clarity ever so often. She knew before it happened that her childhood cat had died. When she worked the lottery kiosk at her convenience store job at seventeen, she told Mrs. Johnson her ticket was a winner. Mrs. Johnson took great offense, stormed out the store, but it was her face on the news a few nights later behind a cheque for ten million dollars.

A similar feeling hit her early Monday morning, jerked her so suddenly awake that she called the office, told them she’d be late into work.

She needed to see Bobby Singer.

She dressed quickly, pausing just long enough to choose her earrings: bold, always colorful. She prepared breakfast for the boys, wrote them a little note and marched herself to Bobby’s house. Her intuition told her he was already awake. She quickened her pace and tried to outrun the guilt that followed her to the house she once knew so well. She and Bobby hadn’t spoken in such a long time, and they had once been good friends. Circumstance had stolen that friendship. She eyed the dusty El Sol bottles lined along Bobby’s windowsills, clocked the cobwebs that draped over the windows as she knocked.

Her dear old friend opened the door and his eyes widened.

“Bobby,” she smiled, her arms wide. He came forward and accepted her embrace, patting her awkwardly with one hand. He never was easy with physical contact.

“Missouri, what’re you doin’ here?”

“I know,” her expression rueful, “it’s been too long, I’m so sorry.”

“You shoulda’ told me, I’d’ve cleaned up a little,” said Bobby, rubbing the back of his neck.

Missouri shook her head, “Can I come in?”

She settled on the couch, made up as a bed with an old knitted blanket whose making Missouri remembered fondly.  _ Missouri, help me weave in these ends, would ya? Bobby don’t got a clue, and I’m hopeless at it! _

Missouri took in the room, the floor barely visible through a mess of receipts, boxes, discarded clothes and packages of food. Books were piled around the dark wood desk, heavy leather chair pushed against it, and more gathered dust on the bookshelves behind it, surrounding the grand fireplace, ornate and covered in cobwebs.

“Oh, Bobby,” she sighed, struggling to keep the pity from her face. She knew how much he hated it, but this was so much worse than she’d thought. Bobby made it a point to never ask for help, and mostly never accepted it either. It was partly what had forced them apart.

“I know,” Bobby said, rubbing a hand down his face “I- I’ll get around to it. Why’re you here, Missouri?”

Missouri bit her lip, narrowing her eyes, a familiar tingling at the back of her neck, “You have something to tell me.”

Bobby shook his head, “S’probly nothin’ but… I seen a boy skulking round the lot.”

Missouri sat back, shock coloring her features, “What’s he look like?”

“Dark hair, kinda spindly sort of fella.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Missouri said, covering her mouth. Castiel? “How long?”

“I saw him first on Saturday mornin’, ain’t been long. Why, you know him?”

“Yeah… I…” It hadn’t been what Missouri had felt was going to happen. She wasn’t used to being caught off-guard like this, “Thank you, Bobby, for tellin’ me.”

Failure sat heavy on her shoulders. She’d see Castiel tonight for study group, but like hell would she continue to let him sleep in a rotting wreck for another second. She’d have to approach it carefully. She didn’t want to scare him off again. Perhaps it was a job for Dean.

She could fix the situation with Castiel later. Right now, there was another soul in need, stood in front of her, his eyes drawn back to the mess gathered about his ankles. He looked small, fragile. Not the Bobby Singer she remembered. Missouri held up her hands, “You know what, I already said I’d be late to work, we’re sortin’ this room right now.”

Bobby grumbled and complained the whole way, but with a stern look from Missouri, disappeared into his kitchen and managed to find a roll of garbage bags perched atop the fridge, clangs and clattering accompanying his return. Missouri ached with guilt; while she hadn’t made this mess of Bobby’s house, she also hadn’t been there enough to stop it. Her friend had fallen apart, and she hadn’t been there to put him back together.

They worked to clean the lounge in companionable silence, broken with disgusted cries as they discovered moldy food or slimy tissues beneath the topsoil. Missouri couldn’t help but think of Castiel all alone in that allotment, cold, surrounded by the filth of a decade.

She remembered it. Before it all fell apart.

“You ever go in the lot anymore, Bobby?” Missouri asked, regretting it as soon as she’d spoken. Bobby’s entire body stilled, his hands beginning to shake a little. He took a moment to compose himself, right the mask, calm his breathing.

“No,” he answered barely above a whisper.

“I’m sorry, Bobby, I shouldn’t have-”

“I can’t bear it. Seein’ what I let it become.”

Missouri remembered; the swing, the lavender and lilies, more roses than one could comprehend.

“What if we cleared it up?” Missouri asked tentatively, almost feeling the eggshells cracking beneath her feet.

Bobby just shook his head, collapsing into the chair, pushed up against his desk, “It’s too late.”

“Hey, now, don’t talk like that,” Missouri pressed, the same sensation bursting beneath her skin, telling her  _ this is it, _ “Just so happens I got three able-bodied boys, one in desperate need of… redirection.”

Once she had Castiel safely back under her wing, he’d need some form of punishment for the hurt he’d caused her little family. She’d never believed in screaming, shouting or withholding her care. The allotment presented itself as the perfect opportunity, and Missouri at once knew this was exactly why she was drawn to Bobby’s home today. For this very moment. There were so many second chances to be had, and her gut told her it all started in that forsaken allotment.

Bobby pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, breathing deliberately.

“It’s too much to ask,” he murmured, “ain’t nobody else’s fault.”

Missouri dropped her garbage bag, already half-full, and crouched in front of Bobby, slouched in his chair, holding his face in his hands. She took those rough, old hands in her own, squeezed them tightly.

“Let me do this for you, hon, I’m begging’ you.”

Bobby’s squeezed back, just barely, in answer.

Castiel spent the entire morning at school watching over his shoulder, afraid of being caught out by Crowley or Alastair. At lunch, he caught himself heading to the bleachers, stopping himself just in time. There was a wall round the back, by the picnic benches, where students sat in the summertime. Castiel perched there, watching his peers, carefree and easy with their friends, and felt soul-crushingly alone. He was almost looking forward to his study session, just to see someone else, talk to them. As much as Alastair terrified him, Castiel couldn’t deny even  _ his  _ company was better than none.

Charlie met him at his locker at the end of the day as was her habit, her grin bright and wide. “I saw you by yourself at lunch today,” she said, looping her arm through his. He looked down quizzically, but she carried on regardless, “come and sit with me tomorrow, ‘kay?”

“What?” Castiel narrowed his eyes.

Charlie shrugged, “We’re friends, right?”

The walk back to Missouri’s was, as usual, dominated by animated conversation between Dean and Charlie. Castiel was too distracted to contribute anyway. Charlie truly considered him a friend, not just a pathetic nobody in need of her help. His thoughts deafened him, blocking his awareness and drawing him inside himself. So, when Dean and Charlie stopped he almost fell over them. His heart leapt into his throat; they were staring at the allotment.

“Look,” Charlie pointed, “there’s a sleeping bag in there.”

Dean pressed himself close to the fence, and Castiel swallowed the bile and shame that clawed up his throat. He was almost late to school that morning and hadn’t had the time to pack the sleeping bag away under the bench. “Huh, looks like someone’s camping out,” Dean shrugged, “weird spot for it.” Charlie frowned, and Dean blushed, hurrying to explain himself, “I just mean I’ve never seen anybody in there. Looks like it ain’t been touched in years.”

Castiel liked that. Abandoned things always found one another somehow.

“I think there’s a crazy guy, lives just over there,” Dean continued, pointing to an old, battened down house that faced directly onto the allotment, its scrambled backyard merely an extension of the chaos within the fence.

Castiel, unable to stopper his interest, blurted out, “Crazy how?” Maybe that was who he heard the other night, not that that idea was any more comforting.

Dean whirled, as if he’d forgotten he was even there. “Uh,” Dean struggled and rubbed at the back of his neck, “He’s um… some sort of recluse, I guess.”

“How do you know?” Castiel frowned.

Deep lines carved themselves across Dean’s forehead, “Rumor, I guess.”

“Have you ever seen him?”

“No,” Dean said, a flush colouring the tips of his ears.

Castiel nodded, peering into the allotment with feigned disinterest, “Whoever’s living here, they must be a real loser.”

Charlie swatted at his shoulder, “Don’t say that! You don’t know what they’ve been through.”  Castiel snorted. If only she knew. He turned away from his temporary home, walking quickly before she could see anything that might give him away. He didn’t wait to see if they had joined him.

The study session was quiet, tainted by Castiel’s reluctance to sleep outside another night. Missouri’s house was so warm, and that sofa bed had been so comfortable, especially with all those cushions and pillows under his head. The bench in the allotment had set a crick in his neck that he spent most of the day trying to dislodge. Claire was right; he’d been careless, thrown it all away and for what?

Dean and Charlie talked easily, joking and laughing with one another. Castiel felt a jealousy boil in him; he’d never been particularly good with new people, that much was evident. His first impressions were always bad, and he had a hard time letting people in, given his shameful home life back in Madison. Even as a child, Castiel never had friends over for the bruising shame he felt at his lack of toys, the unmown backyard, the empty kitchen cupboards.

Things were even worse now; there were so many things he kept secret. His locked-up brother, his unpredictable, alcoholic mother up and leaving without so much as a phone call, his lack of friends, his homelessness. It was all too shameful to say out loud, so Castiel sat and stewed on it, stubborn to a fault and frustrated by his own oppressive vow of silence.

Dean hovered at the door as Castiel packed his things, he could feel Dean’s gaze on the back of his neck, prickling and heating the skin there like a beam of sunlight. It made him feel uncomfortable and he tried not to shudder as he turned to leave. “I’ll… um… see you tomorrow, I guess?” Dean said, the same awkward fumbling in his voice mirrored by the fidgeting in his hands. Castiel cocked a quizzical brow and gave a curt nod. “Where are you going, now? Missouri said you had somewhere to stay?” Dean asked, leaning against the doorframe.

“Do you care?” Castiel bit, heading out the door and down the steps.

Dean shrugged, “Guess not.”

“Later,” Castiel sighed by way of a non-committal goodbye.  He felt Dean’s eyes on him the whole way down the street, and he hated how it made him squirm.

“Dean?” Missouri called from the kitchen. Dean shut the door, having watched Castiel disappear over the horizon for reasons unknown to him.

“I need you to do somethin’ for me,” she asked as he entered the kitchen, steamy and smelling deliciously of spiced meats and buttery potatoes.

“Sure.”

“I need you to go and get Castiel.”

Dean baulked, outrage coloring his groan, “God, you’ve gotta be kiddin’ me.”

Missouri’s hands on her hips quelled his rebellion almost immediately, like a damp finger to a flame, “I know you don’t like him, but you think just maybe you been projecting onto him just a little?”

“Projecting?”

“Blaming him for stuff you’re feeling. You know he don’t have nothing to do with your daddy.” Dean’s shoulders sagged. Missouri, as usual, spoke as if reading from the pages of his mind. Missouri pressed her fingers into her eyes, her shoulders deflating, “Just go find him. Maybe start with that lot by Bobby’s. I just...I hate the idea that I’ve just left him to hole up in a tent somewhere, freezing to death.”

The allotment? Could that loser camping out be  _ Castiel?  _ Shock stole his words. It was the sort of thing that happened to other people, people you don’t know. Cas out there all alone in the dark? Dean sighed. As much as he hated Castiel, he wasn’t heartless enough to leave him out there. That, and he loved Missouri like a mother; it was almost always out of the question for him to refuse her anything she asked.

He pulled on his shoes and grabbed his jacket from the hook. “Bring him back,” Missouri said, following him out, “kickin’ and screamin’ if you have to.” Missouri shooed him out the door just as the timer on the oven pinged. Dean’s stomach, like Pavlov’s dog, began to grumble. “I’ll have a plate for you when you get back,” Missouri reassured, patting his arm.

“Can’t I eat first?” Dean whined, relenting at the force of Missouri’s answering stare.

“The sooner you go, the sooner you get your dinner. Now, get, you’re lettin’ all the warmth out.”

He gave a put-upon sigh and headed out to the allotment. As much as Dean hated the idea of Castiel living with them again, he had to admit, Castiel had softened somewhat. Hell, he’d stopped Alastair last week; no explanation given.

The allotment was right at the end of the street, but Dean saw Cas right away, leaning against the old fence, a sparked-up joint lighting his features, glowing golden amongst the gloom. Castiel started on Dean’s approach, hastily stubbing out the joint as he ducked back into the garden. Dean squinted in through the fence, his eyes battling the darkness, but he caught glimpse, a shock of dark hair. “Cas, come out, I know it’s you.” A heavy sigh of resignation came from the darkness.

“Hey,” Castiel said, ducking back through the tear in the fence to join Dean on the sidewalk, “Um-”

“This isn’t where you’re staying is it?” Dean pressed. Castiel looked sheepish; a strange look on him.

“What are you doing here?” Castiel grumbled, crossing his arms, petulant, child-like.

Dean scoffed, and lied easily, “If you must know, we ran out of milk.” At Castiel’s unwavering glare, Dean’s shoulder’s sagged, “Missouri asked me to come find you. She’s… worried about you or some shit.”  

Castiel ran a hand through his hair, sighed heavily. Dean watched as the tension in his body drained and Castiel sank to the sidewalk. Dean glanced back into the allotment; the sleeping bag was gone. Even if Dean had wanted to leave, to return to Missouri’s with a lie on the tip of his tongue, Dean wasn’t sure, looking at this situation, that he really could. Castiel looked small, vulnerable. He’d freeze without something covering him.

Something like pity twisted painfully in Dean’s chest even as he batted at it impatiently. “How long you been here?”

Castiel fiddled with the sleeve of a heavy jacket that hung off him, casting him as a child who’d rifled through his parent’s closet. “Since Friday,” he murmured.

Dean drew up short, “Where were you before then?”

Castiel threw him a loaded look, and Dean knew. “Alastair’s?”

Castiel nodded, his fingers dancing nervously about one another where he slumped against the fence. He’d always wondered why Cas hung out with that douche-nozzle. Now, it was starting to make some sense. And, he guessed, Cas had been kicked out for stopping Alastair from ripping Dean a multitude of new ones. Why? He’d lost everything with that one inexplicable decision. They  _ hated _ each other, why the hell would he...

Castiel shrunk smaller, training stubborn eyes down the street. Dean frowned, “Are you okay?”

“Do you care?” Castiel scoffed, his voice no more than a murmur.

“No,” Dean protested hotly, because, hell no, “but… look, you can’t stay here.”

Castiel threw his arms up in the air, “If I had a dime-”

“I mean, you should come back to Missouri’s. She’d have a fit if she knew where you were. Even worse if she found out I’d seen you here and done nothin’.”

Castiel rolled his eyes, “I’ll be fine.”

“Without that sleeping bag?”

Castiel’s eyes snapped to his, his brow furrowing, “Someone took it.”

The twisting in Dean’s chest pulled tighter. “Okay, so either you freeze to death, or old man Singer,” he nodded his head to the battered old house, “will report you to the police for squatting. Then, Missouri’s probably gonna run into you again at the station and she might just lose her mind.”

Old man Singer wasn’t really crazy; Dean had actually heard about him from Missouri. He  _ was  _ a recluse though, that much was well-known. Dean felt a little bad using the poor guy as a threat but needs must.

Castiel stared resolutely at the ground in front of his feet, and Dean tried to keep the pity from his expression. He didn’t feel sorry for Castiel, he couldn’t. There was nothing to be sorry for. The kid was a grade-A asshole.   

“C’mon,” Dean ushered nevertheless, moving forward hesitantly, “Missouri actually gives a shit about you, she’d want to know you’re safe.”

The weight of the decision passed clearly over Castiel’s face. Despite the apparent struggle, the decision was a quick one to make. He ducked back wordlessly into the garden to collect his things and Dean walked back with him, hands stuffed deep into his jean pockets and shoes scuffing along the sidewalk. They walked in silence, but it wasn’t the same stifling silence as before, just one that came from having nothing useful to say.

Missouri’s smile was an exhausted one as she ushered Castiel into her home once more. She had Dean make up the sofa. Dean flinched at the smell of weed clinging to Castiel’s clothing, but if Missouri smelled it, she didn’t say anything. “We’ll talk in the mornin’,” whispered Missouri as she patted Castiel’s shoulder with a sad smile.

Dean hesitated at the door, Castiel hovering at the foot of the sofa sleeper, staring right back at him with an odd expression. Dean’s body was heavy as he forced it to move, giving Castiel a half-hearted wave before turning upstairs, forgoing the heaven-scented dinner that awaited him as his stomach roiled, forgetting its earlier eagerness. He was suddenly bone-tired, not even bothering to shed his clothes as he collapsed into bed. He was half way through wriggling himself comfortable when he heard Sam shift in his own bed.

“Dean?” Sam whispered into the dark, “where did you go?”

Dean smiled into the dark, flipping the lamp between their beds on and sitting up, despite his body’s protests, “Had to go get Castiel back.”

“Huh?” Sam frowned, sitting up, too, “Where was he?”

Dean looked to his hands, folded in his lap, “He was in that garden, behind Mr. Singer’s place.”

“What?” Sam said, his eyebrows rising in concern, “He said he had somewhere with walls.”

“He got kicked out of it,” Dean shrugged, resolutely ignoring the feeling of guilt that washed over him, telling him that had been entirely his fault.

“Poor guy,” Sam sighed, lying back heavily, his bed squeaking its protest.

“You can’t be serious,” Dean scoffed, “the guy’s an asshole. You remember what he did to Missouri, right?”

Sam shrugged, his pillow hissing under his shaggy hair as he turned to face Dean, “Missouri seems to have forgiven him.”

Dean scowled, “Doesn’t mean I gotta.”

Sam fiddled with the edge of his comforter, his eyes pensive, even by the weak light of the lamp.  “You could try,” he mumbled, “you said he saved you last week.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Dean rolled his eyes, “he hardly _ saved _ me.”

“He helped you, Dean. That doesn’t sound like something an asshole would do.”

“Watch your language.”

Sam gave a long languid roll of his eyes, but thankfully dropped the subject, flipping off the lamp. Dean was half way asleep when Sam spoke again, his voice just above a whisper, “Where do you think dad is right now?”  They did this a lot. Sam was too old now for Dean’s made-up fairy tales, old enough to have at least  _ some _ idea why their dad was always leaving them places. Still, Dean closed his eyes, willing away the ache John Winchester always wedged in his chest and the quiver in his voice, “See, there’s this vampire nest in Tucson, right in the middle of the city. Dad’s meeting up with some buddies to take them down, reckons there’s at least fifty of them, maybe more.”

“ _ Fifty _ ? Is he gonna be okay?”

Dean ignored the twinge that told him, no, he probably wasn’t going to be okay. John Winchester was the exact opposite of okay, had been for a long time. From their phone call on Friday, he was in the same sorry state he’d always been in. No closer to taking them home.

“Yeah, Sammy,” he whispered, “he’s gonna be just fine.”  

Castiel lay on the sofa bed, once more surrounded by Missouri’s warm little house, staring at the ceiling. Dean had got the positioning of the cushions all wrong of course, but after some coercion they caressed his aching neck like a cloud. He thought about that sleeping bag, how, in the time between him seeing it on the way to Missouri’s and coming back three hours later, someone had found the allotment and taken it.

It had to have been Alastair; Janesville’s homeless were exclusively based downtown, he couldn’t imagine any of them discovering somewhere as obscure as his allotment, plus there was the unwritten rule amongst vagrants: don’t touch what isn’t yours. But how had Alastair found it?

His phone buzzed by his head and a wave of nausea rolled through him as he opened the message:

_ Dean won’t always be there to save you, _ it read, the number unknown, _ I’ll be watching. Always. _

Heart pounding, Castiel sat up, staring out of the windows for any sign of movement. Nothing but the swaying of the trees, the old lady across the street taking out her garbage, who gave him a hesitant wave. He drew the curtains tight, curling in on himself under the duvet. He fell into an uneasy sleep, full of disturbed dreams, eyes watching him from the dark, shadows clinging to his every step.

Bustling sounds awoke Castiel the next morning, a mournful twinge tugging at his chest. It had been a long time since he’d last heard the sounds of breakfast being made in the kitchen, sleepy conversations murmured over strong coffee. He rubbed the sleepless night from his aching eyes, followed his nose and sat with a sigh on a stool pressed against the kitchen counter. The morning sounds fell silent, and as he truly began to wake up, he saw three faces staring at him warily.

“Good morning,” he said hesitantly.

Missouri smiled and pushed a mug of coffee towards him. Sam and Dean dug back into their breakfast without a word. “You sleep okay?” Missouri asked, making him up a plate of eggs as if out of habit.

“Fine, yeah,” Castiel breathed through the lie, “better than the bench.”

Her smile turned sad for a moment, then she turned and pulled her bag onto her shoulder, pointing a serious finger at each of them, “You boys be good, get to school, I’ll see you tonight.” Dean nodded, and Sam waved happily. Missouri waggled her fingers, that same sad smile sticking close to her lips so that Castiel had no choice but to remember her pity.

As the front door clicked closed, Dean moved to the hallway to pack his and Sam’s backpacks. Castiel sat with Sam at the island, drinking his coffee and picking at his eggs, failing to find a way to crack the silence between them, thick with hesitation. Sam looked at Castiel, with a small smile on his lips. Castiel still couldn’t shake that cold, unrelenting stare Sam had levelled him with before, but his soft expression was a welcome change.

There were questions, serious and insistent questions pushing against Castiel’s tongue. He and Dean certainly didn’t like each other enough to talk about them, and Castiel was trying to avoid getting too close to Missouri. Just in case. But this moment, sat quietly together on opposite ends of the kitchen island beneath the fragrant bunches of herbs and dried flowers that hung from the low ceiling, Castiel felt those questions tip over the edge of the dam.

“What happened to you two?” Castiel asked, his voice sounding too loud in the tiny space. 

Sam’s brow creased, “What do you mean?”

“Why are you here? Where are your parents?” Sam looked down, abandoning his breakfast entirely to twist his fingers in his lap. Castiel recognised the look of a sore subject. He wished in that moment he’d kept his mouth shut. Asked Sam about homework or girls.

“Sorry,” he started, “you don’t have to- “

“Our mom died,” Sam said, his voice quiet, “a long time ago.”

“Sam, I’m… it’s okay, you don’t- “

“It’s okay, Cas, I barely remember it. I was tiny, still in a crib. Someone set our house on fire. The news said it was just a mistake. The wrong house. My mom was sound asleep… Dean came and rescued me.” Castiel frowned at the doorway Dean had just disappeared through. At first, the idea of Dean doing something like that was unthinkable, but now that he’d heard it, Castiel could imagine it. He could see it proven in the way Dean looked at Sam, the way he hovered at arm’s-length, protecting Sam always.

It made total sense.

Castiel closed his lips tight around another apology; if there was one thing he knew about being a kid with a fucked-up childhood, it was that apologies never helped. “My dad he…” Sam shook his head, “I don’t know, he’s still cut up about it. I think he blames himself.”

Castiel couldn’t think of anything to say that wasn’t useless or redundant. What was he supposed to say?

They sat in silence, tense and heavy, until Castiel was certain Sam was done talking about it. He let out his breath carefully, collecting the plates from the island to stack them in the sink. Sam’s voice was small, under his breath, like he was afraid to say his next words out loud, “Dad hates us.”

Castiel frowned, abandoning the plates to sit back down, “I’m sure that’s no- “

“We remind him of her. Dean looks just like her. It’s crazy. He has her eyes, her smile… Sometimes dad can’t even look at him. Like it’s too painful. That’s why he leaves us.”

Castiel studied Sam’s face; his brown hair flopping in front of his eyes, getting caught in his dark eyelashes. He thought he could see a trace of guilt there. Castiel knew that feeling, too. “You shouldn’t blame yourself, “ he said, aiming for comforting and falling short. Sam’s face crumbled before him.

“If dad didn’t have me to worry about, he’d have gone for her instead,” Sam insisted, keeping his voice low, eyes darting to the door, “I don’t think he expected Dean to… he could’ve saved her. If it weren’t for me.”

“Sam,” Castiel said, his face set serious, knowing exactly what it was like to blame y ourself for things that were out of your control. He’d laid awake for months on end thinking if only he’d done this, if only he’d said that, then maybe his dad would still be around. Of course, Castiel hadn’t even understood what was happening the night he father up and left. What had made him leave. But, Gabriel’s wailing, his mother’s subsequent spiral, it had always felt like his doing.

“None of this is your fault, Sam.”

Sam smiled sadly, “Thanks, Cas.”

Castiel knew Sam didn’t believe him then, but he hoped one day he might.

Any response was cut short by Dean’s appearance in the doorway. Sam greeted him with a smile that seemed so easily pasted over his features ,  that it surprised Castiel to see it.

“Ready to go?” Dean asked haltingly, as if he could sense a heavy topic just passed.


	10. Star Of Bethlehem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Tracks for Chapter:  
> Bad Blood - Bear's Den  
> You're So Very Far Away - Clem Leek

Missouri slumped at her desk, rubbing her fingers back and forth over her eyes. Admittedly, she’d slept better than she had in weeks, knowing Castiel was safe and fed. But she had had a hard time forgiving herself for abandoning him, for giving up and letting go. It had been a rough day, too. Two aggravated assaults and one potential arsonist. In between her duties, Missouri had been keeping tabs on Claire’s family members, mailing various forms and reaching out to colleagues and friends who could help find Claire her forever home.

She’d only managed one call with Claire since Castiel had left, but it had been a good call; she was willing to be helped, though if Missouri didn’t know better, she’d hazard that Claire was perfectly capable of taking care of herself.

A fresh-brewed cup of honey and lavender tea steamed on her work desk. Missouri clasped her hands around it with a heavy sigh, her back, ramrod straight all day, finally curled into her leather chair. She’d been looking forward to this moment all day and savored it with her eyes closed. One sip was all she managed before her phone rang. It was Valerie Krushnic. Missouri, finally relaxed and a little drowsy, tried her best to sound professional. Valerie was doing well at the clinic, her withdrawal finally beginning to ease off. Mostly, she was desperate to hear news of her sons. Missouri was desperate, too, to tell Castiel that his mother was worried about him, cared about him in a way he’d never quite understand, but Missouri had held true to her promise.

As she packed her things for home, Missouri told Valerie about Castiel’s study sessions, and about Garth’s visits to Gabriel, carefully omitting the fights with other inmates, or the night she turned Castiel away.

The TV was murmuring quietly by the time she made it home and closed the front door behind her. The boys sat together, Dean and Sam on the sofa, Castiel curled in the great armchair that was Missouri’s favourite. They weren’t speaking, and there was still a lurking tension hanging in the room, but she reasoned, it was a blessing to find Castiel still there.

“Hey, boys,” she said, keeping her voice soft. Dean craned his neck and smiled, Castiel answered with a small wave. Sam was just as intense about nature documentaries as he was about everything else, so Missouri forgave him for ignoring her entirely. She watched as an ant shouldered an entire length of grass, ten times its length, and carry it above its head across the treacherous forest floor.

“Castiel,” she murmured quietly, “can we talk, my office?” Brief confusion, a flicker of panic, swept across Castiel’s sharp features, but he relaxed his face back into his usual blank stare just as quickly, and he followed her across the hall. “How’re you holding up?” she asked, carefully closing the door behind her, choosing to lean against her desk.

Castiel shrugged, shuffling awkwardly on his feet, “Fine. I...“ he bit his lip and looking at his hands, twining around one another in an anxious dance, “I should probably thank you for taking me in again.”

Missouri smiled, her shoulders relaxing with a sigh, “Castiel, I want you to know that this is your home now. I’m truly sorry for kickin’ you out but-”

“I didn’t leave you much choice,” Castiel scoffed, rubbing at his shoulder. Missouri nodded, watching discomfort hitch his shoulders towards his ears. She desperately wanted to make him comfortable, to feel welcome. She knew with a sharp pain that she had broken his trust, as he had broken hers, but she was anxious to make it right.

“I want to do everythin’ I can to help you,” she said. Castiel’s smile was brief, one that didn’t reach his eyes. “I mean it,” she stressed. A quick nod was all she received.

“But, there has to be some sort of punishment for the havoc you’ve caused. The study group is a tool, to help your studies get you back on track so that, hopefully, you graduate with your class. But what you did to this family, to me-”

“I didn’t me-”

“Let me finish. I have forgiven you, but in this home, you right your wrongs and you do your time. Mr. Singer told me he found a squatter in the allotment behind his house the other day,” At this, Castiel seemed to shrink. It hurt to see him caught out like that, so she was quick to soothe, reassure him that Bobby hadn’t been mad, only concerned, that all she felt was relief that he was safe again. She recalled her promise to Bobby, brought it up tentatively, “I told Bobby you and the boys would clear up that allotment.”

“Why them?” Castiel said, eyes narrowing.

“ _ You’re _ payin’ your dues,” she explained, “but I want to give you three an opportunity to bond. To right your wrongs.”

Castiel sighed heavily, his fingers twisting and turning about one another. His gaze fell upon them, and he sat still and silent for a drawn-out moment his brow furling with thought. “Sure,” he said, so quietly Missouri couldn’t quite be sure she’d heard him.

“Yeah?”

“Yes, I’ll… I’ll do it.”

Missouri opened her arms, but Castiel shrunk back away from her.  _ Give him time, _ she reminded herself,  _ don’t rush him, don’t scare him away _ . “Thank you, Castiel. This will be so good for you, I promise.” Castiel gave a strained smile, better than she’d gotten in all the time she’d known him. She grinned. “I’ll get a laugh out of you one day.” He rolled his eyes, but there was humor writ across his expression as he made to leave. She sighed heavily, the weight of the day she’d had finally catching up to her. “You want pizza tonight? I’m up to cookin’.”

Castiel’s expression was a mixture of nerves and happiness, as if he wanted to feel and express the correct emotion but was unsure if he was doing it right. “That’d be great,” he said, “thanks, Missouri.”

And in that moment, she knew that Castiel’s thanks was for more than just the pizza, and she clung to it desperately with both hands, fingers curled tightly as one does around something sacred. A photograph. A gift. A loved one’s hand.

“Go tell the boys, would ya?”

Stomach full of pizza and the night darkening the windows, Castiel set up his bed early, lounging with his physics notes spread out in front of him, Charlie’s crib sheets clutched in his hands. Dean had joined her for a D&D night, whatever that meant, and Sam was already holed up in his bedroom, Mumford & Sons floating down the stairs.

His forces tangled with his momentums, swirling in front of his eyes until his head began to ache. He’d liked physics once, when they were learning about space; planets and moons, stars moments from imploding. This was not only impossible, it was _ boring. _

Just then, something moved outside the window. Castiel could have sworn it, the way his heart rate tripled, flinging itself desperately against his ribs, his breathing catching at the back of his throat. He bolted to the window, pressing his face against the cold glass, fogging beneath his breath. The street was empty and dark, pools of light from the streetlights shining golden, uninterrupted. A bird, maybe, a trick of the light. He looked past his own reflection, eyes squinting into the darkness, so like that first night in the garden. His senses were drawn taut, prepared to snap.

The dull roar of his phone vibrating against the covers had Castiel clutching at his chest. The fear still trickled its way down his spine, as he took in the number on his screen.

“An inmate from Dane County Jail is attempting to contact you. To accept the call, please press one.” Castiel pushed his notes aside, collapsing back onto the bed, knee jumping in anticipation as he waited for his brother’s voice. His eyes stayed fixed on the window.

“Cas-assaurus, my man!”

Castiel rolled his eyes, fear melting away, “You haven’t called me that in years.”

“I know right? Got a lot of time to think here.”

“Are you okay? You sound cheery.”

“I’m good, I’m good, don’t you worry about me. It’s good to hear your voice. Fill me in, what’s been happening?”

“School,” Castiel said, distracted by his phone buzzing into his ear. He ignored it, “The Principal set up a study hall for me and got me back on track.”

“And you’re sticking to it? The track?”

“Yeah,” Castiel promised.

“Good. You still at that guy’s house?”

“No, actually,” Castiel said, spreading his hand over the fresh duvet Missouri had washed for him, “Missouri took me back.”

“God bless that woman,” Gabriel chuckled, “Don’t fuck it up this time, alright?”

Castiel let Gabriel complain about the food with the volume turned up as he checked the message on his phone.

_ Who are you talking to? _

His blood froze. He tapped out a quick reply,  _ Who is this? _

He returned to the conversation, but the hair on Castiel’s arms was standing static, shivers rushing over the back of his head. “I’m so sorry, Gabriel,” he interrupted, regret flooding over him as soon as he spoke, “I have to go.”

Gabriel sighed, “Yeah, me too, actually. I’m almost out of time and Tony the Tiger is staring at me.”

Castiel forgot his bone-deep discomfort for just a second, “Tony the… what?”

“Oh man I didn’t tell you about Tony? He’s got tattoos on his face, like tiger stripes. And he’s filed his teeth. Crazy motherfuck- “

“You probably shouldn’t call him names if he’s standing right behind you,” Castiel said, smiling into the phone even as his outer senses were exploring just beyond the window, straining in the dark for a sound, a whisper, something.

“They don’t call you the smart one for nothing. Alright, Cas-per the friendly ghost, I’ll catch you soon okay? Take care of yourself. I miss you.”

“Miss you, too. And don’t call me Casper.”

Gabriel’s laugh rang loud and comforting as he hung up. It was a comfort he wished he could hold on to. Instead, it was swallowed by his paranoia, his certainty that something was still out there, watching him. He moved slowly to the window, careful to glance underneath the windowsill before he turned his attention to the street again. After one more scout, Castiel flung the curtains shut, holding them tightly together as he tried to regulate his breathing.

Whoever it was watching him, they didn’t text him again that night.


	11. Daffodil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Tracks for Chapter:  
> Creeping Up Our Shins - This Is The Kit  
> Mess Is Mine - Vance Joy  
> She's Got You High - Mumm-Ra

Dean stood at the edge of the allotment, shaking his head with a disgusted expression. What the hell was Missouri playing at? She and Sam had both been on their high horse about bonding with _ Ass _ tiel, and honestly it was beginning to piss Dean off. Why the hell should he? Because everyone else was uncomfortable?

Dean was uncomfortable, too; didn’t anyone stop and think about that? He was uncomfortable that the asshole was sleeping under the same roof as him, he was uncomfortable that he was there at breakfast, at school, at lunch, back to the same seat at dinner. Dean couldn’t escape him. He was  _ uncomfortable _ because he and Cas hated each other, but Cas had still stood up for him. Hadn’t spoken to Alastair and Crowley since, as far as Dean could tell. And now, if all of that wasn’t enough, Dean was being forced to spend even more time with him, cleaning this old allotment that nobody had any use for. It was  _ stupid _ . All of it.

And this place was the  _ worst. _ Sharp brambles covered everything, there was a distinct smell of rot about it, not just the crumbling planter boxes, but from the garbage. Dean was willing to bet there was ten-year-old food in some of those paper bags. Probably full of maggots, too. His stomach lurched.

“What a dump,” he murmured, kicking at a coke can, loaded with his frustration. Castiel followed the can’s journey into the overgrown weeds and grass with a blank expression.

Castiel was irritating like that. Dean couldn’t gauge him. When he came fists whirling with bitter words dripping from his tongue, Dean knew what he was dealing with. He didn’t like it, of course, but at least he knew how to deal. Nowadays he was quiet, subdued, just judging everyone silently instead, and it grated.

There was one question, however, that Dean desperately wanted the answer to.

“Why here?” Dean asked, hoping he wouldn’t invite too much conversation. He just needed to know what sort of person would find a place like this and think ‘this’ll do’.

Castiel simply shrugged and knelt to bury his hand in the soil of one of the rotten planters. “I had nowhere else,” Castiel said quietly.

Sam arrived before Dean could say any more about it, carrying with him a bunch of tools far too heavy for him, collected from Missouri’s house. He’d forgotten Sam was even following along; just another thing to hate Castiel for. “Jesus, Sammy,” Dean said, vexation coloring his words, “ask for help next time.”  Sam grinned, undeterred, letting the trowels, spades and rakes hit the ground with a clang. Castiel came over to inspect with disinterest. And wasn’t that just the most annoying expression? “So,” Dean cleared his throat, in an attempt to force his voice jovial, “where should we start?”

Castiel shrugged, “You guys don’t actually have to stay and help, you know. You could-”

“I want to help,” Sam said, a gentle smile on his face, “honestly.”

Impossibly blue eyes scanned the disarray around their feet, and Castiel bit his lip in thought. “I guess we each take a corner, garbage first?” Castiel said after a moment, “We just have to clear it.”

Sam grinned and produced a roll of garbage bags from his back pocket, “This enough?” Castiel gave a curt nod, briefly looking to Dean before grabbing a spade and setting off to the other end of the allotment.

Dean mind knelt on the ground and began to pull at the rotting wood of a planter box, which came apart between his fingers and crawled with bugs. He gagged into the comfortable silence that fell upon the garden, and in that quiet Dean’s mind reeled. He thought mostly of his dad, pushing at the pain in his chest with a dirtied palm. He would have to try and call him again, they hadn’t spoken since Friday. While Dean could never begin to understand the depth of his dad’s pain, or why he’d left them with Missouri for so long, Dean tried his best to forgive him. It was tough, and most days he didn’t manage it. He and Sam were originally meant to stay in Janesville for no more than two weeks, but Dean was now able to recognise Missouri’s expression whenever John called, asking for a little more time; it had been months.

Dean missed his mom. He could barely stand to think of her; it hurt far too much. A gaping chasm, like a burning in his whole body, would open slowly and the tears would fall unbidden, a wave he couldn’t hold back, not for himself at least. For Sam, he tried his best to remain positive, to stay strong. Shoulder the pain. Sam crawled into Dean’s bed in the middle of the night sometimes, when the thoughts that lurked there in the dark threatened to destroy all they had, to tear down any semblance of normality they so desperately clung to. Dean would stuff Sam’s pillow between them, curve himself around his little brother and hold on tight until Sam’s shoulders stopped shaking.

John had stayed strong for his sons, and held back his pain for a long time, before he turned to alcohol. At some point, something had to give. Thirteen years was a long time to avoid grief.

They worked well into the afternoon, stopping to demolish the sandwiches Missouri brought them in the early afternoon. Dean’s muscles ached, his skin stinging from the thousand tiny cuts he’d collected from the brambles and sharp edges of forgotten cans. The dirt compacted thick beneath his chewed nails and sweat pooled in the small of his back, but as Dean looked over the allotment, he could do nothing but smile. It was by no means beautiful, but he felt a deep sense of satisfaction at the sight of clear ground. They were far from finished, but at least half of the space was cleared and devoid of garbage and debris. He almost felt guilty for his earlier annoyance. The activity, the demand on his body, had been strangely cathartic.

Castiel’s phone had gone off several times that afternoon, which would have been a mundane occurrence if not for Castiel’s stricken look each time, eyes flying this way and that, the skin of his face paling, small smile falling.

It pinged again, like a strike against a bell.

Dean caught Castiel’s eye then but lost his nerve to hold it, unsure of what he was witnessing. He looked away and busied himself with tying the last of his garbage bags.

“Dean!” Sam cried, “Look!”  Dean bustled over, happy for the distraction. Castiel looked over, phone stowed again, his hands stilling in the dirt. Sam opened his hand, “Seeds,” he grinned.

Dean squinted, pushed the dirt in Sam’s palm aside gently with the tip of his finger. Sure enough, like tiny stars, bright seeds scattered themselves in the dark.

“Are they new?” Castiel asked.

Sam considered the life in his hand, “I don’t know. Nobody’s been here in a long time. They’re probably dormant.”

“Dormant? Like, sleeping?” Dean said.

“Sure,” Sam smiled.

“And you can… like, wake ‘em up?” Dean flinched, feeling ever the mouth-breather compared to Sam’s sharp intellect.

“I’m gonna try,” Sam said, his chest puffed with pride, “do you think Missouri has some little pots?”

Castiel disappeared and reappeared again as if from nowhere, holding a few plastic pots, no bigger than a cup, “Would these do?”

When Sam beamed like that, it was impossible for Dean to resist it spreading to his own face.

“Hey!”

The voice that called out to them was gruff and came from the direction of the ramshackle house a few paces from them. The three boys whirled, alert and wide-eyed. Dean saw old man Singer (Missouri always slapped his arm when he called Bobby Singer that) traipsing over through his own backyard, eyes almost totally hidden by the brim of his worn baseball hat. “You Missouri’s boys?” he asked as he came to the fence. What Dean could see of his face, hidden beneath greying bristles on his chin, was pinched. Like being close to them pained him in some way.

“Yes, sir,” Dean said, brushing the dirt from his palms and straightening his back, “Dean Winchester, sir.”

Bobby’s face softened, “You look like just like your mom,” he said quietly. Dean’s heart clenched. A lot of people told him that. Dean hadn’t known Bobby knew his parents. Bobby looked away, pained expression fading just a little, “And you must be Sam.”

Sam nodded curtly, just like he did with their dad.

Bobby nodded to Castiel, “And who’s this?”

Dean followed Bobby’s eyes, taking in Castiel’s face for longer than he’d ever dared. The sharp features, strong jaw, sun-blushed skin, dark eyelashes framing those impossible-blue eyes. The sound of Castiel’s voice shook him out his study.  _ The hell? _

“Castiel, sir. Um, Castiel Krushnic.”

It was obvious that Castiel had never called anybody ‘sir’ before.

“Nice to meet ya, son,” Bobby said, “I’m Bobby Singer.”

Castiel nodded and the atmosphere became a little strained. ‘Crazy-Old-Man Singer’ didn’t seem to fit quite so well as Dean had imagined. Bobby seemed like any other grumpy old man, though by his stature and sun-worn face, Dean would peg him somewhere in his mid-fifties.

Sam broke the silence just before it became unbearable. “Mr. Singer, sir? I was wondering if you had any soil, good soil for seeds? I found some and-” Bobby’s face darkened just a little, his features sagged back into a comfortable frown. Dean tensed. It looked for all the world as if Sam had offended Bobby with that very simple question, the way shadows passed across Bobby’s face.

“Gimme a minute,” he mumbled, shuffling back to the house.

Sam’s face wore guilt easily, and Dean lay a reassuring hand on his shoulder, “He’s fine, Sam.”

Sam shook his head, “I think I upset him.”

Castiel shrugged, Dean saw it in the periphery of his vision but didn’t dare look at him again. The amount of detail he’d paid attention to the last time had shaken him quite enough already.

“If he’s upset, it’s his problem,” Castiel said quietly, eyes trained straight ahead - yes okay, Dean snuck one more glance, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Bobby came back with a bag of soil, which he carried around to the tear in the fencing. Dean frowned; there was a gate on Bobby’s side, why hadn’t he used it? As if he’d spoken his question aloud, Bobby said, “I, uh, jammed the gate… some time ago. I haven’t… haven’t fixed it.” Dean moved quickly to help with the bag, but Bobby grunted, “I got it.”

Sam laid out the pots with one hand, cradling his treasure in the other. Bobby opened the bag, setting it on a clear patch of earth. Castiel knelt and began scooping a handful of soil into each pot while Sam picked the stars from the sky in his palm.

Bobby straightened, his hands on his hips, a guarded expression etched onto his aged features.

“Looks good, boys. This one day’s work?”

Dean smiled, proud, “Yes, sir.”

“You’ll be all done soon enough,” Bobby said, “how often will you be here?”

Dean looked to Castiel, who was too absorbed in patting down the soil with Sam to hear anything at all.

“Not sure,” Dean settled, “definitely on the weekends.”

Bobby nodded, “November comes, this whole place will be clear.”

“I hope so, sir.”  

Sam cradled his little seeds all the way home, spread out amongst three pairs of arms. Castiel seemed more than willing to help, which struck Dean as completely bizarre. He watched Cas with skepticism as he carried his own four little pots without complaint.

“If these grow,” Sam said, his voice bright and hopeful, “I think I want to enter them into the science fair.”

Dean grinned, transferring his pots to one arm to ruffle Sammy’s hair. “That’s awesome, Sammy,” he said. Sam scrunched his nose up in displeasure, his hair suddenly uncomfortable and lying all wrong. Dean chuckled, tidying it up for him.

“I was thinking of going to the library tomorrow,” Sam continued, shaking his head to further sort his hair.

“You ain’t goin’ alone,” Dean replied, suddenly serious, “no way.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but Dean didn’t care. He’d lost mom, pretty much lost dad, he wasn’t about to lose his brother, too. He didn’t care if it sounded ridiculous; anything could happen. One day his mom was cutting the crusts from his PB&J, the next they were burying her six feet under. He never wanted to go through that again.

“Come with me, then,” Sam sighed, “and bring Charlie, I like her. You guys could get some extra studying in.” Castiel groaned from behind them and Sam laughed, “Come on, Cas, what harm could it do?” he said.

Dean stared on, bewildered at the friendly exchanges between the two of them. He truly admired Sam’s gift of forgiveness, how quickly he could move on from a hurt.

“Sunday is rest day,” Castiel grumbled.

“Amen,” said Dean.

Sam stopped suddenly, turning impossible puppy eyes up at the both of them. “Please? I really want to go.”

Dean looked to Castiel, expression soft and rolled his eyes. Sam’s puppy eyes rarely failed. “Fine,” he cried, “we’ll go to the frickin’ library.”

Sam beamed, “Call Charlie.”

After helping Sam line his seeds along the windowsill of their shared bedroom and sitting with Missouri for several heaping servings of her perfect mac n’ cheese, Dean collapsed onto his bed, rolling his shoulders, sore with a hard day’s work. He sent a text to Charlie, who responded almost immediately.

_ Oh my god, really?! I’d love to! Is Cas coming? _

His phone buzzed with another text before he had the chance to reply,

_ Does this make us besties? _

Dean snorted, tapping out his reply, _Yeah Cas is coming. See you tomorrow, Bradbury._

Charlie sent him a picture of herself, beaming in a pair of thick-rimmed glasses with a very enthusiastic thumbs-up.

Missouri had the coffee brewing by the time Dean made his way downstairs the next morning. Castiel was there, too, his almost-black hair sleep-mussed and wild. He clutched a mug of coffee to his lips and stared sleepily into its contents.

“Mornin’ Dean,” Missouri chimed, catching a piece of toast as it was flung from the toaster, buttering it and fishing some bacon from the pan on the stove before pushing the plate over to him without question.

“You’re magic,” Dean grinned, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. We’re gon’ have to get Castiel here used to eatin’ breakfast.”

Dean laughed at Castiel’s deadened expression as he mumbled, “Not a morning person.”

“Not even some cereal?” Missouri cried, “You gotta eat somethin’. I think I got some oatmeal somewhere.”  She reached up on her tiptoes to see deep into her cupboards, full of herbs and spices and tea bags.

Dean looked to Castiel, surprised to find he was already being watched. Those blue eyes assessed him unapologetically, and Dean smiled shyly. He watched a flicker of confusion pass across Castiel’s face, and felt it bloom inside himself. What the hell? Were they at  _ smiling _ now? Freakin’  _ smiling? _

Castiel grabbed an apple from the bowl to his right and bit into it soundly. Missouri turned at the sound and sighed in relief, “Alright. I’m makin’ you something to take with you today. Dean, make sure he eats.”

“I ain’t his babysitter!” Dean cried, “He can look after himself.”

Castiel’s face did nothing to hide his amusement, “I’ll be fine, Missouri. I’ve never had much of an appetite.”

She turned with her hands on her hips, but her response was silenced by Sam’s arrival, and she busied herself again, making a breakfast Sam hadn’t asked for, promptly served to him before he could even say, “Good morning.”

“Charlie’s drivin’ us over,” Dean said, “should be here in half an hour.”

Sam’s smile was sleepy but beamed bright all the same.

Charlie was right on cue, and they all piled into her bright yellow Gremlin. Missouri gave Sam her library card and waved them off at the door.

“How come Squirt gets the front?” Dean grumbled as he tried to cram his legs into the tiny back seat. Castiel looked just as uncomfortable, the cramped space forcing them closer together, knees bumping as they adjusted their seatbelts.

Sam smiled smugly back at him, “Called it.”

“Bullshit,” Dean grumbled.

“Driver picks the music,” Charlie chimed, stuffing an old cassette tape into the slot, “shotgun picks the destination.”

“To the library!” Sam cheered over the sound of Katrina and the Waves crackling over the busted speakers.


	12. King Protea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Tracks for Chapter:  
> Alchemy - Maximo Park  
> That Knot Unties - David Karsten Daniels  
> The Funeral - Band Of Horses  
> Bloom - The Paper Kites

The library was hushed, the smell of dust thick on the air. A lot of public libraries had modernized, but Janesville’s still had a touch of age about it; the dark wood floors, the yellowing pages and the dust-laden shelves, the boxy computers that lined the far wall. Even the employees were old, long-past retirement.

As soon as Dean sat in the wooden seat across from Sam and his tower of books, Sam leveled him with a knowing look.

“What was that?” Sam said.

“What? I helped you with your books,” Dean replied, utterly bewildered.

“You smiled at Cas this morning.”  

Dean could feel his cheeks heat. He screwed up his face to try and hide it, “Did not.”

“Did too. You found him funny. And then you made eyes at each other and you smiled at him,” Sam leaned forward to whisper, conspiratorially.  

“Sammy,” Dean groaned, earning him a hearty ‘Shh’ from the librarian at the desk a few tables away. Old bat still had 20/20 hearing then. “No one says ‘made eyes’ anymore,” he added in a whisper.

“And then he was all confused, but I saw him smile, too. Something’s happening here,” Sam said, sitting back in his chair, gangly legs knocking Dean’s. He looked very pleased with himself.

Castiel was smiling, too? Dean frowned, brushed it aside. He didn’t care if Castiel smiled at him or punched him. He really didn’t. “Nothing’s happening,” Dean said, spreading his hands, “it was a smile. People smile at each other.”

“Not you and Cas,” Sam replied, crossing his arms, that smug expression plastered onto his features, “you like him.”

“I don’t!” Dean cried, covering his mouth almost immediately. “I don’t,” he whispered.

Sam raised an eyebrow.  “It’s okay if you do, you know. You can be friends. He’s actually pretty cool.”

Dean rolled his eyes, his tone mocking, “ _ Oh, he’s actually pretty cool.  _ Can it, Sammy, I don’t like him.”

Sam opened one of his big, dusty books, looking entirely unconvinced. He began scribbling notes on seed dormancy and once Sam was started with research, it was hard to break him out of it. Dean shrugged off the conversation, pulling out his textbooks and trying to ignore his racing heart. He’d just chosen to try and forgive was all, move on. That was it.

Castiel and Charlie gathered themselves, backs to the Winchesters, around the computers at the far end of the library, since Charlie wanted to work some more on her college applications, and ‘applications take research’. He rolled his eyes fondly and settled next to her to work on revising their study notes. College… Castiel had only played with the idea. He would never get in, even with Charlie’s help. Still, it was an idea that excited him, terrified him, too.  “Aren’t you scared?” he asked as Charlie pulled up the websites for Yale, MIT and Brown. Castiel swallowed heavily.

“Of what?” Charlie smiled.

“I mean,” Castiel stammered, “they’re all so far away. And so high up the table.”

“You don’t think I should apply?”

“No, no,” Castiel rushed, “I just mean… doesn’t the institution just…”

“Cas, have you been thinking about college?” Charlie pressed in that frighteningly knowing way of hers. Castiel fiddled with the sleeves of his - Dean’s - sweater, ‘AC/DC’ emblazoned loudly across his chest.

“Hey,” Charlie said, bending to meet his eyes, “it’s okay if you have. I think you should go for it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Castiel snorted, “they’d turn me away before I even got through the door.”

“And _ I’m _ being ridiculous? Your grades have been improving, you’ve turned it around in less than a month, if that doesn’t give you faith in yourself and your abilities, I don’t know what will.” Castiel considered his notes in front of him. It was true, he was understanding so much more of his subjects than he’d expected, things were clicking into place, making sense. But college? “You don’t have to shoot for ivy league,” Charlie shrugged, “this has been my dream since I was five, but there are so many colleges, Cas, the US is _ really big. _ ”

Castiel huffed a laugh; it was easy to forget. He’d never set foot outside of Wisconsin before. Not once.

“I get you’re scared,” Charlie said, “but I dunno, you wanna look through some prospectuses together?”

Castiel wheeled his chair close as he could. Charlie even threw an arm about his shoulders, giving him a squeeze, only made awkward by the angle. He watched as pages and pages of colleges flitted before his eyes, grand buildings, green lawns, throngs of students studying happily beneath huge old trees. It felt… right. And for the first time in a long time, Castiel thought he might have found something he wanted.

Of course, he didn’t know what he wanted to study, but Charlie told him Freshman year was mostly general anyway; he’d be taking classes in a whole bunch of subjects. Maybe that would help him decide.

Charlie ordered at least ten free prospectuses to Missouri’s house, a huge beaming grin on her face.

As Castiel worked steadily through his homework, he thought back to the allotment, his muscles reminding him every time he moved with a sharp ache. He felt quiet, had been since yesterday. Like everything was covered in a thick layer of fog. The simmering anger had dissipated, replaced with something altogether indescribable; the best Castiel could manage was numb. Everything felt far away;  _ he _ was very far away.  

Something about the plants, the way they scraped across his hands and face, the smell of them even, it brought back a memory; wispy, teasing him on the cusp. It wasn’t a happy memory, and it left him in a state of inert panic; he wasn’t sure what he was panicking about. Just that the memory frightened him.

The tendrils of that fear left as soon as he was the other side of that fence, but the fog remained, clouding his senses.

Charlie’s phone pinged happily from her bag and Castiel watched, detached, as Charlie scrambled as it continued to chirp, before she could turn it to silent. Castiel would have laughed if it weren’t for the smile that quickly fell from Charlie’s face. She leaned back with a sorrowful sigh.  “Everything okay?” Castiel hedged.

“Not really,” Charlie shook her head, slamming her phone down against the table and holding her head in her hands.

“What’s happened?”

“Just got dumped,” Charlie intoned morosely, voice muffled by her hands.

“I’m sor-”

“That bitch,” Charlie hissed, clenching her fists and raising her head, eyes brimming, “She knew I couldn’t commit to anything serious.”

“Who?”

“Dorothy,” she groaned, “from drama class. We went on a few dates, made out a whole bunch but now I guess she’s done ‘experimenting.’ God, heteros are the worst.”

“Tell me about it,” Castiel said, clapping a hand over his mouth as soon as the words had left him. The slow-spreading grin on her face told him it was already too late.

“You’re gay?” she whispered.  Castiel looked around, saw Dean and Sam locked in a conversation that had Dean blushing all the way down his neck. He didn’t mean to stare but…

“Oh. My. God,” Charlie grinned, “this is too much.”

“Huh?” Castiel was too busy trying to decide what could be making Dean blush that way, but Charlie’s hand, firm on his forearm, pulled his gaze away.

“You like him.” Charlie’s hazel eyes were the size of dinner plates and her ponytail swayed with her momentum.

Castiel rolled his eyes, “I do not. We hate each other.”

“I think he likes you.”

Castiel’s eyes narrowed, “Dean’s straight.”

Charlie shrugged, “I’m sure we both thought that about ourselves at some point.”

Castiel considered Dean’s profile again, now hunched over his notes, his hands holding the pen in a clunky iron grip, his tongue poking out in concentration, like a child. Castiel knew from their study sessions that Dean’s writing was actually quite neat, and that a lot of his ideas were mature and well-executed. Dean was strange like that. Full of contradictions. He looked to be all brawn, but there was plenty of brain in there. Softness, too.

“I’m so right,” Charlie grinned.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in mourning?” Castiel snapped humorously. His phone vibrated against his leg, and his stomach swooped towards his feet. He waited until Charlie had settled with her research before checking it, bile burning in his throat.

_ You’re wearing his shirt. Secret’s out, faggot. _

Castiel sat up, head swiveling as he took in every shadow, every nook that could hide a person. Footsteps behind him. Castiel leapt out of his chair, the scraping against the floor startling Charlie who rose with him.

“Woah, Cas?”

Castiel’s chest was a mess of breathlessness and fear. He was being watched. Again. He’d received a whole host of messages over the last fortnight. The voicing changed, the number, too. That was, for him, the worst part. It could’ve been anybody, multiple anybodys. He scanned the room; cellphones were everywhere, in people’s hands, beside them on desks. Whoever it was, they were here now. They could see him. But, maybe they couldn’t hear him; if they’d taken Dean’s loaned t-shirt as proof of his preferences, they clearly hadn’t heard him just come out out to Charlie. He rushed to the windows, frowning into the gathering trees around them. They had to have gotten right up to the glass to be able to see him. Were there footprints in the dirt beneath the windowsills?

“Cas,” Charlie said, appearing at his shoulder, and pulling him away, “what the hell?”

Castiel’s mind tumbled through endless possibilities. How had his number got out? Why was this happening? Who was doing this? He couldn’t see any footprints under this window but…

“Cas,” Charlie insisted, pulling at his elbow, “You’re scaring me.”

“Charlie,” he whispered, eyes scanning the other windows, “you haven’t given my number out to anyone, have you?”

Charlie’s face collapsed into confusion, “What? No, why?”

Castiel focused back on his own reflection, poised tight as a coil, shoulders drawn around his ears. He took a deep breath, deliberately shook himself free of the fear. He chuckled, though to his ears it sounded shaky, a little breathless, “No reason, never mind.” He returned to the computer station on unsure feet, his hands trembling. If Charlie had any questions, she didn’t ask them.

Castiel dreamed of a garden that night. Huge ferns towered above his head, leaves, he knew, that were easily the same size as him. He was so small. The grass tickled at his shins, and worms writhed between his toes. He looked down to see they were podgy, little feet with tiny toes, and realised, with a detached sort of surprise, that he was a baby. The air was hot, close, suffocating. Thunder rolled menacingly above. 

Panic gripped him. When he looked up he couldn’t see the sky; foliage surrounded him, trapped him. He pushed with all his might at the huge stems before him, but they seemed to push back. In the dream he began to scream, his throat burning with tears which fell without hesitation. He lost his balance half a dozen times, shoving and scrambling to get out of the undergrowth.

“Cassie,” his mother called. Castiel cried harder, trying desperately to let her know where he was, how much he needed her.

“Come on, baby,” she cooed, in a voice he had never heard, or at least didn’t remember her ever using. She laughed, gleefully, and the footsteps retreated, as did her voice.

“I’m in the garden,” she cried, her voice tinged with mirth, “I’m in the garden, Cassie.”

Castiel pushed again at the flowers and leaves that blocked his way, crying all the harder.

“I’m in the garden.” Her voice was so distant, and almost entirely drowned-out by the sound of thunder. Castiel felt the defeat drag his feet from under him, and he sat in the undergrowth and heaved with sobs that wracked his entire body, aching with loneliness. With the thunder came the rain.

The rain drowned out his cries, the sound of his despair.

Another week passed, huddled with Charlie and Dean around Missouri’s coffee table and making headway in the allotment with the Winchesters. Charlie and Castiel booked themselves in for their SATs at Parker High for December first. Castiel was nervous, but Charlie loaded him with test prep, one step from holding his hand throughout the entire affair.

Another week of goading, insulting, sometimes complimentary texts which made Castiel feel sick every time his phone buzzed. Even when it heralded an update from Claire or a call from Gabe. He couldn’t concentrate in class, hadn’t eaten lunch with Charlie all week. Instead, he took to prowling the grounds, searching every dark corner, every hidden hideaway. The texts turned mocking then. Castiel heard laughter all around him. His thoughts gave way to paranoia; he’d yelled at two groups of innocent girls for laughing within his earshot. The weekend usually offered a little reprieve from the messages, and often he only received one or two instead of his daily dozen.

Castiel set out that Saturday, determined to put it all behind him, try and regain some normality. He couldn’t let this rule him, keep him fearful.

He wouldn’t.

Castiel didn’t know when it happened, but Missouri had somehow shifted from the last person on earth he wanted to see, to Cas picking out the perfect bunch of cilantro at her behest.  He’d agreed, quite readily, to grab some things from the store before Missouri got home. Dean and Sam had asked to join him, with the intention of heading to the park on the way, but the brothers had worn on Castiel’s dwindling patience and he’d left them behind.

Grocery bags in tow, Castiel leaned against the ornate cast-iron fence, waiting for Sam and Dean to finish their batting practice and closed his eyes. His mind went instantly to the messages, but he wiped them aside impatiently. _ Not today _ , he told himself. Instead, he thought of Missouri and her peculiar little home. How she’d welcomed him again, the big bad wolf who had torn through her life like a hurricane. She forgave him. Castiel couldn’t remember anyone except Gabriel forgiving him for anything. His mom was a big fan of grudges.

There were footsteps coming towards him but Castiel paid them no mind, caught in the memory of his mother refusing to speak to him after he, clumsy six-year-old, managed to break the lamp in the lounge. There was cigarette smoke in the air around him, and Castiel breathed it in; it had been quite some time since his last cigarette. He hadn’t seen Crowley in weeks. They smelled like Gabriel, like his home.

“Give back my shit,” growled a cloying, nasal voice.

“Alastair,” Castiel greeted, opening his eyes lazily, “what a pleasant surprise.”

“Quit fuckin’ around, Krushnic, you stole from me.”

Castiel quirked a smile, quickly masking it with a frown, “I don’t know what you mean.”

Alastair moved too fast to defend against, pinning Castiel against the fence by his throat. The blunt metal dug painfully at his shoulder blades. Castiel tried not to obviously struggle for breath as Alastair’s bony hand, his fingernails just a hair too long for comfort, closed in tightly. The groceries spilled out on the sidewalk at their feet.

“You crossed the line, you piece of shit,” Alastair hissed, his breath burning hot on Castiel’s face, “Play nice and no one gets hurt.”

Castiel sighed, as best he could, and gave a little nod. Alastair was dumber than Castiel thought. As soon as he let go, Castiel delivered a punch straight to Alastair’s jaw. He had to reach but there was power enough to snap Alastair’s head to the side, sending him stumbling back. Alastair chuckled, a dark sound that made Castiel’s teeth grind. Alastair blundered forward, but Castiel saw his reply coming, blocked it, and kicked hard at Alastair’s knee. Anger came bursting through the dam, powering his muscles, his fists.

Alastair caught him on the jaw, the cheekbone, got a particularly nasty jab to Castiel’s stomach that had him gasping for air. They were evenly matched and Castiel loved every second with a dark and twisted malice. Arms suddenly clamped around him, pulling him from his armpits, just as he’d wrestled Alastair to the ground. He was a few feet from where he had straddled his target. Castiel lunged, snapped his teeth, not knowing, or caring, whose arms were wrapped tight as steel around his shoulders.

Alastair stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Castiel noticed blood coloring his sallow lips. Alastair was laughing. “You’re gonna regret this, faggot,” he sneered, and the arms around Castiel tightened. Castiel’s heart leapt, launching haphazardly in the cage of his ribs. The texts… Was it Alastair?

“Fuck off,” said the voice behind him. Castiel looked up, seeing Dean’s eyes burning with rage, that green so bright it was hard to look at, like staring into the sun.

“What’re you gonna do, Winchester?”

Dean chuckled darkly, “Don’t tempt me.”

Alastair shook his head, eyes on Dean, he pointed a sharp finger at a Castiel, “You and your boyfriend have no idea what you’ve started.”

“Sure, Alastair,” Dean smirked, his grip unrelenting, “Now run along.”

As soon as Alastair had turned his back, Castiel shrugged sharply out of Dean’s loosened grasp. “I didn’t need your help,” Castiel grumbled, straightening his clothes and wincing as his muscles and bruised skin pulled and jarred. He shoved at Dean for good measure, but he remained unperturbed, had the gall to look  _ smug. _

“If you were lookin’ to spend a night in jail for aggravated assault then sure, you didn’t need my help,” Dean shrugged.

Castiel glared at him but Dean simply waved him off, “A simple ‘thanks’ will do.”

Castiel watched as Dean collected Sam, mouth agape, from the batting cage, and Castiel hastily stuffed the food back into the bags with aching hands. He certainly would  _ not  _ be thanking Dean.

Missouri was back from work when they got home, and she gasped at the sight of Castiel’s face. He must’ve looked a picture. “What happened?” She cried, taking the groceries from him, handing them to Dean and taking Castiel’s chin in her hand. He often forgot Missouri was almost a foot shorter than him; she had a presence which filled the room. He bent down to her.

“I fell,” he lied.

“Bullshit, you fell, boy,” she said with a half-hearted shove to his aching shoulder, “tell me what happened.”

“It’s true,” Dean spoke from the kitchen, “saw it happen.”

Missouri studied him with narrowed eyes.  _ Please believe him, please believe him _ , Castiel chanted.

“What ‘choo fall on? A boxing ring?”

Castiel snorted, “Something like that.”

While she didn’t look the slightest bit convinced, Missouri dropped his chin and nodded upstairs, “Go get yourself cleaned up.”

There was redness blooming along his jaw as he studied himself in the mirror. His mouth tasted of blood and his lip was split, already fattening. There was a cut on his cheekbone, too, where a bruise was beginning to crawl up the side of his left eye. He shrugged out of his borrowed t-shirt with a hiss as the blows on his back and stomach complained loudly. His phone buzzed against his leg. There was another string of texts.

_ My, my, my. Dean Winchester what a hero _

_ Protecting his precious boyfriend _

_ I wonder...who tops? _

He swallowed against the panic, scrabbling to close the blinds on the bathroom window, already frosted for privacy. He pushed aside the urge to text back, to call, even. He didn’t want to rise to it, let whoever this was know that they had any effect on him.

He returned to studying his body, in an attempt at distraction, noting the blush of bruises-to-come littering his stomach and ribs. He grabbed some cream Missouri kept for bruised knees and began to apply it. He turned, trying awkwardly to see his back, where a particularly bad twinge was driving him crazy. He glanced at the open door as the floorboards outside it complained.

Dean’s face was guarded as he hovered in the doorway.

“What?” Castiel said, hissing as he stretched his tired muscles to try and reach the bruises on his back.

“You need a hand?” Dean shrugged, “You’re never gonna reach those ones.”

Castiel’s shoulders sagged in resignation as Dean took the cream from him and began to gently apply it to the blooming bruise on his back. Castiel felt his fingers still against the jut of his shoulder blades.

“What’re these?” Dean asked. Castiel concentrated all his energy on not shuddering at the sensation.

“My shoulder blades?”

“No, asshat,” Dean said, giving him a little shove, “these marks.”

“Birthmarks,” Castiel shrugged. They were small, jagged dark brown marks that sat on each shoulder blade. Castiel had never really given them much thought. Dean’s eyes were soft, Castiel could see them in the mirror, and when Dean looked like that, it was suddenly very difficult to hate him.

“Never saw matchin’ ones before,” Dean said to himself. Castiel watched as Dean shook himself out of his daze and focused back on Castiel’s bruises. “How’d this happen?” he asked quietly.

“You saw it,” Castiel replied.

“I saw you whalin’ on each other, yeah,” Dean said, his voice strong but soft.

Castiel considered not telling him, but the look of concern on Dean’s face was enough to loosen his grip just a little. “I stole some stuff from him,” Castiel admitted, hissing again when Dean pressed a little too hard against another bruise, nestled neatly above a tender rib.

“Why?”

“He took me in for a while... He started asking me for rent, which he knew I didn’t have, so he kicked me out and I… I took some stuff from him before I left. Some money, weed… camping stuff.”

“Holy shit,” Dean chuckled, “you got more balls than I thought.”

Castiel snorted, “I guess. I’m surprised it took him this long to find out.”

“Not the sharpest tool in the shed,” Dean said, handing back the tube. He pulled away, wiped his hands on his jeans. “You think he took the sleeping bag?” Dean frowned as Castiel pulled his shirt back on with difficulty.

“It was probably him,” Castiel shrugged. He toyed with the idea of telling Dean about the texts, too, but something in the calm between them stopped his tongue. He felt himself soften when he glanced back to Dean, standing shy in the doorway once more. “Thank you,” he said, just above his breath, “for today, for… stepping in.”

Dean waved him off, “S’nothin. We’re even now, I guess.”

Castiel nodded. Somewhere between them, the ice had begun to thaw.


	13. Forget-Me-Not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Tracks for Chapter:  
> The Old Favourite - The Gloaming  
> Greasy Goose - This Is The Kit  
> Them - Nils Frahm

Mr. Singer had been right; by the first weekend of November, dominated by the pale sunlight that barely warmed Castiel through his sweater, the garden was breathing again, right beneath their feet. His muscles were sore, and he was tired to his very core, but the vast expanse of clear ground had been totally worth it. He looked to Dean, soil smudged up his cheek and the back of his neck, who stood, plunging his spade deep into the ground to uproot the last of the brambles whose debris Sam had been carefully stuffing into the garbage bag hung from his hip.

“Cas,” Dean called, “Gimme a hand?” Since the altercation with Alastair, he and Dean had wordlessly let their grievances lie. Dean was bright, talkative suddenly. Funny, too. Castiel almost regretted the months he’d spent hating him.

Castiel plucked a second spade from the fence. “Just,” Dean grunted, “dig down on the other side, would ya? Gonna try and lever it out somehow...Sunova bitch’s really in there.”

Castiel smiled before he could catch it. He took in the mirrored expression on Dean’s face, hesitant but genuine, and it warmed him. Ever since the fight, Dean had been looking at him like that, and suddenly it didn’t feel quite so terrible to just… smile back. It was easier. He shook himself, and dug the blade in deep, leaning against the spade with his whole body until his arms shook.

“Jesus,” Castiel breathed, “you weren’t kidding.”  Dean laughed, and the sound of it was… Castiel realised he wasn’t usually the cause of it. It felt good. Sort of light.  

“I think I’m under it,” Dean grunted, “Are you under it?” Castiel wobbled his spade back and forth, hearing the crunch of the roots breaking underneath his effort.

“Got it,” he smiled, “on three?”

Dean nodded, his face and neck red from effort. Sam grinned from the fence, and on a nod from Dean he began the count down. Castiel braced himself against the handle, which pressed right beneath his ribs with a dull ache.

“One.”

Castiel’s arms tensed and shook.

“Two.”

He breathed out slowly, bracing his hands tighter against the handle.

“Three!”

He pushed with all his might, his shoulders screaming with effort. Dean cried wordlessly, but his face was bright with sweat and satisfaction as the roots finally broke and gave way with a ripping sound. Castiel nearly fell backwards at the release. The roots were as thick as a cat’s tail, a long and complicated tangle. Dean stepped forward, taking the roots in his hands and lifting them high above his head with a victorious cry.

It was such a dorky thing to have done, but in that moment Castiel felt nothing but fondness for him.  

“We did it, boys!” Dean cried, plunging the roots into Sam’s garbage bag, “No more fuckin’ brambles!”

Sam crowed from the fence, his grin sharp and sure.

Dean looked around with his hands on his hips, took in the bare dirt all around them, “S’bigger than I thought,” he said.

Sam sighed happily, tying up his garbage bag, “I’m taking this to the dump.”

Dean nodded, though his expression was concerned, “You gonna be okay?”

Sam rolled his eyes, “I’m not a baby, Dean.”

“Right… yeah, just be careful.”

Sam waved, hauled the sack over his shoulder and ducked through the fence.

Castiel, exhausted, slumped onto the floor with a heavy sigh.

Dean chuckled, “I feel you there, buddy,” joining him on the soil. They sat in an exhausted, comfortable silence, just taking in the vastness of the job they had finally completed. Castiel felt satisfied; his body ached, but he was grateful that it was from hard work. Clearing the allotment was probably the first thing he’d seen through to the end in his entire life.

“Charlie told me you were thinking about college,” Dean said, his eyes fixed on the sky above, gathering grey clouds threatening rain, “you gonna go for it?”

Castiel shrugged. In truth, the prospectuses had arrived, and he spent most of the night before he went to sleep reading through them by the light of his phone. He couldn’t stop. The dream took hold, shook him roughly. He’d been reaching further in his classes, opting for extra credit work on top of his already loaded work schedule. If he could have seen himself a few months ago, Castiel might have thought himself possessed.

“I think so,” he answered simply, “You?”

Dean sighed, “I dunno. Bobby told me about something called a… trade school; somewhere I can learn to be a mechanic. I think I’m gonna do that. I’ve always loved cars and engines and shit, ever since I was little.”

Castiel smiled. It was a good fit.

“Can I ask you something?” Dean said quietly.  Castiel shrugged. Once he’d started being more open with Dean, he realised it wasn’t nearly as painful as he’d imagined. It was more of a relief. Claire was awesome of course, but she had so many of her own problems, Castiel didn’t want to load her with more. And Gabriel wasn’t available at his behest. There were many excuses he could have listed, chief among them was that it simply felt good to talk.

“How did you get here?” Dean said, curiosity spilling over his features, “What happened?”

Castiel laughed, surprised, “You don’t know? I thought Missouri would have told you guys.”

Dean’s face turned serious, “No. Missouri isn’t like that.”

Castiel nodded, sobering, “Yeah. I uh… my brother and I- we stole a car.”

Dean snorted, “No way.”

“Yeah. We got caught, crashed the car and, yeah, that was that. Then, I met Missouri…”

Dean nodded, “But you-”

“Pissed you off and got chased away? Yeah,” Castiel smiled, picking at the soil beneath his hand.

Dean had the good grace to look guilty, “Sorry ‘bout that.”

Castiel waved him off. Before that moment, he would have blamed Dean entirely. Castiel almost didn’t recognise himself. That knot that had been slowly unravelling since he got here; he could barely feel it most days. His body was calm. He felt calm. “It’s nothing I didn’t deserve,” he admitted with a casual shrug.

Dean’s face grew sad, “But how did you get there? From the crash to…”

“My mom picked me up from the station,” Castiel fiddled with his hands, prying soil from beneath his nails, “kicked me out for beating up her boyfriend and I… ran away.”

“Where?” Dean said, leaning forward, eager like a child during a bedtime story.

“Missouri didn’t say  _ anything _ …” Castiel realised, “You really don’t know?”  Dean shook his head.

“I was homeless.”

Dean stared so long that his gaze became a physical sensation on his skin; he shuddered and pulled his sweater closer around himself, as if he could disappear.

“Cas-”

“Hey!” Bobby called, walking to the fence and leaning against it, “you boys cold?” Dean’s eyes lingered a moment longer, but the spell was broken. Castiel bit back a sigh of relief.

“A little, sir,” Dean said.

“Where’s Sam?” Bobby frowned.

“Just dumping the garbage.”

“Go get him an’ come on inside. I got cocoa,” Bobby said, his grumble softened ever so slightly.

Dean grabbed Sam and together with Castiel they crossed the threshold into Bobby’s home, which felt an awful lot like a hole in the ground. It was dark and damp, the smell of musty old books and bourbon thick in the air. The carpet of the hall and stairs was littered with receipts, old beer cans and newspapers. Some spots of the narrow hallway sported wallpaper that curled away from the ceiling, clinging to the wall for dear life. Boxes upon boxes were piled snug against the staircase and cobwebs hung in every corner, blowing to and fro in the draft from under the front door. Sam gathered a little closer to Dean.

“S’not much,” Bobby said, leading them into the lounge, which seemed to be the only lived-in room of the house, “But, uh, make yourselves at home.  _ Mi casa _ and all that.”

Compared to the disrepair of the hallway, the lounge was warm; lit by various mismatched lamps that shone upon the deep red wallpaper. Sam was drawn immediately to the bookshelves and fell upon them like a ravenous dog. Dean saw a smile on Bobby’s face for the briefest of moments.

“Anythin’ you want, son, there’s plenty more where that came from,” Bobby said in a soft voice. Sam grinned ear to ear and dove back in to grab a worn tome big enough to cover his entire lap.

Dean and Castiel followed Bobby into the kitchen, from which it was clear to tell that Bobby Singer hadn’t looked after himself in quite some time. There was grease-covered packaging from Harvelle’s Roadhouse on every surface. Dean frowned, the name sounded familiar. Bobby cleared his throat, clearly a little embarrassed by the state of his home. Dean reached into a cupboard, its door hanging off the hinges, for a few mugs, running his finger around the inside only to reveal a thick layer of dust clinging to his skin.  

“Where’s your kettle, Mr. Singer?” he asked, the air stifling with tension.

“Call me Bobby, Mr. Singer was my father,” Bobby replied, strained, “Should be…  _ balls _ , where’d I put that thing?”

Castiel moved into the room from his perch in the doorway to search the sink, moving the great Jenga tower of dirty dishes with great care.

“Sorry ‘bout the state… guess I don’t clean up much anymore.”

It was with a forgiving smile that Castiel found the kettle, filled and handed it to Bobby. It changed Castiel’s features entirely, that smile, softened him. A little flicker lit somewhere in Dean’s chest as that same expression turned to him. Dean shook himself and moved to search for the cocoa, thoughts back in the garden.

Was Castiel telling the truth about being homeless? It seemed so unlikely, the sort of thing that happened to people you don’t know. Dean was almost certain Castiel hadn’t been lying to him; his eyes were lowered and there had been no smirk on his lips.

If all of it was true, Dean had been a total asshole.

He’d been so angry, yelled at Cas the first time they’d met. Everything that boy did had pissed him off, no matter how ridiculous. He was ashamed. Somewhere, deep down, he knew that he had been lashing out. What was it that Missouri had said? _ Projecting _ : painting Castiel with a brush that clearly hadn’t fit. He hadn’t even bothered getting to know Cas. Dean himself hated when he was misjudged, but wasn’t that exactly what he’d done to Cas as soon as he laid eyes on him? Painted him the villain ,  the rude, inconsiderate asshole who didn’t care about anything but himself. Yes, Castiel had been cruel, callous and violent, and those actions were inexcusable, but Dean was beginning to figure out  _ why _ . He and Cas were no different in a lot of ways.

“You openin’ that cupboard, or you just gon’ stare at it, hopin’ it opens itself?” Bobby teased, a smirk colouring his words.

Dean blushed, which fanned the heat rising up his neck to a dull roar. He snuck a glance to Cas from the corner of his eye and cursed inwardly. Castiel was looking right at him, amusement writ deep into his smile.

Mugs in hand, Bobby lead them through the kitchen to the garage, where an old 1971 Chevrolet Chevelle was parked proudly in the centre, with rust creeping up the sides. Dean wanted to touch immediately. He’d always had a fascination with cars, especially old classics. His dad drove a sleek, black ‘67 Chevy Impala which he loved to death. His dad had let him drive it once; it was one of his most treasured and revisited memories. The open road beckoned Dean in his dreams; at night he drove that Impala to the ends of the world.

Tools covered the walls, machines that Dean had never seen before, bits of engine poking out of boxes, and the pervasive, intoxicating smell of engine grease was all around them.

“She’s beautiful,” Dean told Bobby, speaking of the Chevelle.

Bobby snorted, “She’s an old girl, but she’s loyal. Fixed her up myself.”

“Yeah?”

“You wanna crack the hood, take a look?”  Dean nodded enthusiastically, excitement buzzing through him. The engine lay pristine beneath the dark green paint, two dirty white racing stripes up the hood. Dean whistled. Bobby asked, “You know your way around an engine?”

Dean bit his lip. Sunny memories of his father, elbow-deep in oil and soot, Dean craning on the tips of his toes from his perch on a small yellow crate. That was always  _ their _ place, him and his dad.

Dean looked to the doorway for Cas before his could stop himself, but there was no sign of him. “Not this one,” he said, before turning back to Bobby.

“I can teach you, if you want? I taught your dad.”

Dean grinned, his heart filling with warmth, “You know my dad?”

“Sure do,” Bobby grunted, “know that car of his, too. You remember that summer you spent at Missouri’s? Couldn’t keep you outta here.”

Dean shrunk. He didn’t remember that at all.

“How old was I?”

“Only a tot,” Bobby smiled, placing his hand around half-way up his thigh, “yay high I’d say. I was the only one your daddy trusted with his baby. He brought it up here to me, brought you boys with him. Couldn’t keep your little hands off the tools. John was excited, too. Told me he’d teach you everythin’. Did he?”

Dean shrugged, “Sorta. I know how to fix the Impala, at least.”

“You gotta learn modern beasts, too but they’re basically the same concept. Wanna help me out?”

“Please,” Dean grinned.

“Pass me that wrench.”

Castiel found himself alone in Bobby’s house. Sam was still pouring over ancient books in the lounge when Castiel brought him a mug of cocoa, Dean and Bobby in the garage, engaged in a conversation that Castiel had no invitation to. He explored the house with careful steps, feeling as though he’d broken in, was seeing things that he wasn’t meant to.  The hallway was narrow, weak sunlight peeked through the dusty windows of the front door and made the dust golden in its dance. There were boxes lined along the staircase, filled with books and photographs. Castiel placed his mug on the stairs and picked up a frame, instantly wishing he hadn’t.

In his hand, he held a younger Bobby, somewhere around his late thirties. His smile was generous, and he had a strong tanned arm slung around a woman’s shoulders. They stood in front of this very house, dappled sunlight falling on a neat front lawn. She was beautiful, the sort of person who would comfort you by baking you a pie while telling you just how to get your shit together. Like Missouri. Castiel ran a finger over her image.

Another picture peeked from behind the frames, and he pulled it out. A garden in full bloom. Castiel smiled. He could almost hear the wind rustling the leaves, making the roses dance. There were so many of them, crawling up the fence, tumbling over the top of one another. Red, pink, white and yellow. A little shed sat at the far corner, and a swing was hung from a tree branch.

He picked up another picture, the same woman was sat on the little sofa just through the doorway where Sam sat reading, she was holding her swollen stomach with a peaceful expression .  Castiel wondered what had happened to the child, Bobby’s child, eagerly awaited in this photo. Something told him it wouldn’t do well to ask. The photos made him feel a deep sadness, not just for what had been but for what now was, Bobby alone in this house full of dust and memories. Locked inside his own loneliness. Castiel placed the photographs delicately back, face-down in the box.

From the kitchen at the end of the hall, Castiel turned on himself, opening a door beneath the staircase which lead down into a basement. He held his breath, told himself he wasn’t scared of the dark, and took the descent, one hesitant step at a time. Gabriel had once tried to get Castiel’s night light taken away, since it kept him awake in their shared bedroom. When Castiel was seven, Gabriel had shut him in the cupboard under the stairs to help him get over his fear of the dark. Suffice to say, though Castiel was loathe to admit it, Gabriel’s plan hadn’t worked.

At the bottom of the staircase, he could just make out a light switch to his right. He flipped it and shielded his eyes from the sudden glare. The basement was nothing like the rest of the house. It was still covered in a healthy inch of dust, but it looked like a place without any pain. Castiel wasn’t sure how he knew that, it just felt… quiet. Almost peaceful.

There was a large woodworking bench in the middle of the room, another smaller one positioned against the far wall. Cabinets lined the walls with endless drawers and compartments, all neatly labelled. Castiel ventured farther into the room where huge stacks of plastic drawers were filled with more types of screws than he ever thought existed. Screwdrivers, hundreds of them, leaned against one another in their holder along the wall. The cupboards were filled with paints and brushes and scrapers. There were saws too, and craft knives, cutting boards and oils in various canisters. Castiel had never seen anything like it. It smelled of wood chips and paint stripper, underneath that was a cold dampness. This room hadn’t been visited in some time.

There was movement upstairs, floorboards creaked and groaned above his head. For fear of being discovered somewhere he truly wasn’t welcome, Castiel took one last look around the room, promising to himself that he’d ask about it, before plunging it once more into darkness and tearing up the stairs as quietly as he could manage.

There was a girl at the front door when Castiel resurfaced, blonde and petite. She gave him a little wave as he made his tentative way to the door. He spared a sheepish look for Bobby, whose hospitality he’d taken liberally.

“You wanna come in, Jo?” Bobby asked, opening the door fully and stepping aside.

Jo ducked inside, denim jacket hugging her body snug. Blonde hair fell in easy curls about her shoulders and delicate features, brown eyes soulful and lined delicately with mascara.

“Dean!” Bobby shouted, “Get yourself up here.”

Sam was still wrapped up in one of Bobby’s books but looked up as Bobby came into the room with Jo and Castiel in tow. Dean soon appeared, wiping his hands on his jeans, leaving black smears on his thighs.

“Boys, this is Jo Harvelle,” Bobby grunted, “she and her mom keep me fed.”  He raised the greasy paper bag Jo had handed to him by way of demonstration, heading to the kitchen. Jo’s smile was bright, forthright.

“Dean Winchester, right?”

Dean nodded, looking a little confused, “Do we know each other?”

Jo huffed a laugh, “We go to school together. Our parents were friends. My mom’s got a bunch of old photos of us, Sam, too,” she added with a little wave in his direction.

“Never seen you around,” Dean said, laughing self-consciously, a hand rubbing harsh lines into the back of his neck.

“I’m a junior,” Jo shrugged, threading her thumbs in the loops of her jeans, “so I won’t hold it against you. You should stop by the Roadhouse sometime, though. My mom would love to see you guys.” Jo turned her wide brown eyes to Castiel then, “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Castiel,” he smiled, holding out his hand to her. Her shake was firm, verging on masculine.

“Pleasure. Well, I’ll see you guys in school or something. I’d better get back, else my mom’ll kill me being gone from my shift so long. See ya, Bobby,” she called before waving her goodbyes. Her scent: fancy shampoo and flowery deodorant, hung on the air long after she left.


	14. Sainfoin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Tracks for Chapter:  
> L.E.S Artistes - Santigold  
> Going Missing - Maximo Park  
> Graffiti - Maximo Park  
> A Closeness - Dermot Kennedy  
> Apply Some Pressure - Maximo Park

Tuesday lunch break, Castiel found Charlie in the cafeteria line. Missouri almost always sent him and the Winchesters to school with meticulously packed lunches, but she had also started giving him and Dean a small weekly allowance for their improvements in school. Castiel saved his allowance for the most part, but Dean always managed to blow his, mostly on the rubbery school cheeseburgers. Castiel liked to stand in the line with Charlie anyway . If she minded, she never said anything. Dean never waited; the first burgers were always the best, apparently. He didn’t even drop any of his shit off at his locker, too concerned with getting as close to the front of the queue as he could.

“How was English?” Charlie smiled, grabbing a fruit pot and yoghurt, loading them onto her tray, “you get a good grade for that practice essay?”

“B+,” Castiel said, quietly proud of himself. He had never gotten anything above a D before, but with thanks to Charlie, his report card was filling up with Bs and Cs across the board.

“That’s awesome, Cas,” Charlie said, considering the plastic-wrapped sandwiches, that reminded Castiel of over-stuffed sausages, white bread stretching at the casing.

“Well, you wrote most of it,” Castiel shrugged, giving Dean a tentative wave as he passed them in the queue. Charlie swiveled to watch with a curious expression.

“You two are getting along these days. Still got that crush?” She waggled her eyebrows and Castiel shoved her playfully.

It was true that he and Dean were toeing the line of friendship, testing the waters perhaps. And he’d be a liar if he claimed he didn’t find Dean attractive, or that his and Charlie’s last conversation about this hadn’t awoken a whole bunch of troubling dreams in him. Despite all that, he was determined to keep his distance, keep things strictly civil between the two of them. He didn’t want to squander everything by making some crazed mistake like acknowledging the crush’s existence , or heaven forfend acting on it. He was mostly happy he and Dean weren’t on the defensive anymore. He’d misjudged Dean, really, he had. They’d both made mistakes, and whilst neither of them had apologised for the rocky start, there was a silent sort of agreement brokered between them, brush it under the carpet and move on. So far, it had been quite successful.

Except, the friendlier he and Dean got, the more threatening the strange texts became. It would take a lot for Castiel to admit he was frightened, but he could concede that the messages had him on edge, especially at school, where they were most frequent.

His phone buzzed, as if on cue, as he and Charlie were making their way to their table. He absented himself with a murmured excuse, checking his phone in the darkened corner of the corridor. He surveyed the people around him, phones in nearly every hand.

_ I’m tired of these games, aren’t you? _

Castiel dared not succumb to feelings of triumph. A huge part of him knew this could be a trap but his neck ached from constantly checking behind his back, and honestly, enough was enough. He texted back immediately eager for an end to all of it.

_ Who are you? _

Castiel’s eyes focused on the students’ toing and froing in front of him. It was no use, they were almost all of them on their phones, or gathered in groups against the lockers.

_ That would ruin the fun. Don’t you want it to be a surprise? _

_ Fuck you, _ Castiel replied, _ just tell me. _

_ I’d much rather show you. _

Castiel thrilled, already setting off for the doors, texted back,  _ Where are you? _

His heart began to race, as his mystery messenger led him through the parking lot, round past the usual smokers’ gathering spot, then round the art building. With each twist and turn, Castiel’s irritation was ramped another notch. A game of cat and mouse felt inevitable, but there were only a handful of places they could hide.

He was led around the back of the science block. Castiel saw him, leaning against the wall, the same nonchalant way he always had, cigarette poised gracefully between his lips.

“What the fuck?” Castiel yelled, anger exploding in bright bursts.

“Very rude, for one,” Crowley deadpanned, pocketing his phone, “Second, what on earth are you talking about?”

“This,” Castiel hissed, storming over and shoving his own phone in Crowley’s hands, the fresh texts blaring and bright on the screen.

“Haven’t the foggiest,” Crowley shrugged, releasing a yelp as Castiel pinned him against the wall, an arm to his throat.

“What are you doing?” Castiel said, searching Crowley’s dark eyes, his jaw clenched and his breathing heavy, “Why are you doing this?”

“Are you seeing what I’m seeing here? Does it look like I know what the fuck you’re talking about?” Crowley wheezed, hands scrabbling at Castiel’s forearm.

“I know it’s you,” Castiel insisted, “You led me here.”

“What?” Crowley cried, incredulous, “I was texting my mother, if you must know.”

Castiel was seconds away from growling. He ground his teeth, “Show me.”

“Why should I-”

“ _ Show _ me.”

Crowley pushed Castiel’s arm away with a grunt, straightening his pea coat with an indignant glare, holding out the message he’d sent to his mother. Two minutes ago.

“But…” Castiel murmured. He looked around him, desperately. He was exactly where he was told to be, he’d been led to Crowley, here behind the science block. It didn’t make sense.

“What’s going on?” Crowley grumbled, lighting another cigarette, not bothering to keep the smoke away from Castiel’s face. It stung his eyes. If it wasn’t Crowley, that could only mean…

“It’s Alastair isn’t it?” he said, fists clenching, anger boiling.

“What? Your stalker? No,” Crowley scoffed.

_ Liar. _ Castiel narrowed his eyes, “Why are you defending him?”

Crowley spread his hands, his expression devoid of patience, “I’m not… don’t need to. Listen, whatever this little game is, it isn’t Alastair.”

The homophobic slurs, the weird obsession with his relationship with Dean, it couldn’t be anybody else. Nobody else had the time to stalk him relentlessly, follow him, watch him. Honestly even the changes in tone were consistent, Castiel had seen that first hand. The changing numbers… Alastair was the kind of guy who could get his hands on a burner phone or three no problem. It had to be him. It couldn’t be anybody else.

“What’s he got on you?” Castiel persisted, “What’s your end of the deal?”

“Listen, mate,” Crowley sighed, “I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re on about, frankly, I couldn’t give a monkey’s about any of this. So, if you’ll excuse me…”

Crowley made to leave, but Castiel held him back with a tight hand against his arm.

“I’d be very careful, Castiel” Crowley threatened, his voice low and sinister, like Castiel had never heard it, “I’ve got friends in high places, make it seem like a total accident, you understand? Get. Your hand. Off me.”

Castiel released it instantly, as if it burned against his palm.

“Pleasure as always,” Crowley smiled, shrugging his coat tighter around him as he stalked away, leaving Castiel fizzing with redundant fury.

He was barely present the rest of the day, sat at the right desks, but unable to concentrate past his reeling thoughts. He _ knew _ it was Alastair, and honestly, he hadn’t expected Crowley to admit it. Crowley had a lot to lose. Alastair might not have the power to chuck him out, but Castiel could only imagine what it would be like to live with Alastair once you betrayed him.

And now that he knew who his stalker was, he had a decision to face. He could reveal that he knew, go to the police, nip this all in the bud. But what if he was wrong? What sort of repercussions would Alastair cook up if Castiel got him arrested for something he hadn’t done?

Castiel conceded, reluctantly, that it was probably best to wait, to be certain without a doubt. And to try his best to hold his tongue, to not provoke. If the police eventually got involved, it wouldn’t do Castiel any good to goad Alastair on. That sort of stuff always wiggled out of the woodwork, and lord knew he and Alastair didn’t have the best past.

He didn’t receive any more messages that day, not even when he curled up beneath the covers, stomach full of Missouri’s winter stew.

Saturday morning dawned early for Dean, with a buzz from the nightstand. He clawed the frigid air outside his duvet with a groan before finding his cell. A text from Jo sat waiting:

_ Come to the Roadhouse today? Mom’s not here to embarrass us with baby photos. _

Their relationship had begun to blossom once again, and Dean couldn’t be happier. Sure, Sam was the only friend he really needed, but having people at school didn’t hurt. Now he had Charlie, like the little sister he never had, Jo too, hell even Cas was making his way up the ranks. The Winchesters moved a lot. That is to say, Dean and Sam moved, John went wherever his darkness took him. As a result, Dean had always had trouble forging true friendships, simply because he had never been around long enough. Now, he ate his lunch every day with Charlie, sometimes Cas too, and after school when they weren’t studying, Charlie would sometimes come over just to hang out. On certain weekends, he’d join her on crusades in Moondor, where he mostly enjoyed whacking people with foam swords, but had also proven himself a notable handmaiden, _ ahem _ , lieutenant.

Jo met him a couple of times in the library at school to talk or study, and she often appeared at Bobby’s after school or on the weekends to bring Bobby’s food, she also brought extra burgers for Dean, Sam and Cas, too. Sometimes she’d throw in some pie.

_ Sure. What time? _ He replied, groaning as his feet met the cold tips of the carpet. Sam must’ve left the window open overnight again. He closed it quickly, checking on Sam’s seeds, making sure the soil hadn’t frozen over.

_ Come spend the day, why not? _

Dean laughed, taking a long languid shower before heading downstairs to grab a quick breakfast.

“Mornin’, sugar,” Missouri grinned, stirring eggs in a large frying pan. Castiel was sat at the island, nursing his usual large mug of black coffee, his dark hair sleep-mussed and adorable. Dean mentally slapped himself.  _ If you don’t like him, don’t call him ‘adorable’ _ , he scolded.

“Hey,” he replied, “I’m gonna head to the Roadhouse, hang with Jo.”

Missouri’s smile was warm, glistening with memory, “You know, you two were nearly inseparable way back when. Must’ve been… summer of 8th grade, you remember? Your daddy dropped you boys here?”

Dean smiled sadly. That time, John really had meant two weeks when he said goodbye.

“Always thought you two would get married,” she teased. Dean felt himself heat, all the way down his chest, and he couldn’t help but glance at Castiel, who was staring at him with a peculiar expression.

“Don’t be gross,” he groused, glossing over his discomfort as Castiel’s stare burned at the side of his face.

“Just be back by eleven, you know the rule,” Missouri smiled, handing him a plate of eggs and toast. How did she do that?

Dean shoveled his breakfast into his mouth, grinning around the mouthful as Missouri watched, unimpressed. She’d always been on him about manners but had given up preaching.

“Alright, later,” he waved, “See ya, Cas.”

Castiel’s eyes were wide and followed him all the way down the hall; Dean felt the weight.

Castiel had to get out of the house, needed to distract himself because the strange souring in his stomach was  _ not  _ about to ruin his day. Especially if he thought about why his mouth was dry and his heart was both racing and clenching all at once.

He called Charlie.

“Y’ello,” Charlie chimed.

“You free?”

Charlie picked him up in the Gremlin and took him to a cafe on main street. Castiel had never been inside, and it was an unusual little place, local artwork peppered across the dark yellow walls and irregular wood stump tables dotted about the dark wood floor. Fairy lights dangled from the balcony of the second floor, and the whole place smelled of rich, deep coffee and fresh bread. Charlie picked one of the window seats, complete with a heinous number of colored cushions that Castiel wrestled with just to sit down.

“So, what’s up?” Charlie said, pushing a menu toward him.

That was the question, wasn’t it? What  _ was  _ up? All he knew is that he’d woken up feeling relatively happy and then Dean had come in gushing about… _ Oh. _ Well, maybe that was it. Charlie had put down the menu in favor of staring at him expectantly, but Castiel couldn’t bring himself to say anything, the words stuck like taffy on the back of his teeth.

“I know you’re a person of relatively few words, but frankly this is a little ridiculous,” Charlie rolled her eyes, “Am I going to have to guess?”

Castiel picked up a paper napkin, shredding it between his fingers.

“Alright, my first guess is this is about Dean. And... judging from that look, I’d say I’m on the right track.”

“What look?” Castiel snapped, simmering as Charlie laughed heartily.  “Sorry,” he murmured. She placed a hand, warm and gentle on his arm.

“You don’t have to tell me, but I’m assuming you called to talk. Let’s get some coffee.”

Charlie ordered for them both, clearly sensing that Castiel was incapable of thinking about anything else except how much Dean was smiling this morning. How happy he was to be hanging out with Jo. How much history he and Jo shared. Were they really pegged to be married? His heart clenched so tightly he had to rub at his chest to soothe the ache. It was all so… familiar.

He’d been here before, with Alfie. The longing, that came seemingly from nowhere. He noticed everything about Alfie all at once, and now here he was making the same mistake with Dean. The shy, little smiles, those stupid, green eyes, the freckles that shone all the brighter when Dean’s cheeks blushed red.

He liked Dean. He might have passed off one dream about him as a fluke, but Dean was appearing almost nightly, usually sleeping right next to him, his body molded to Cas's under the covers. Castiel would wake, alone and annoyingly aroused. Which was ridiculous. Because Castiel couldn’t do this. The pain he felt in the months after he lost Alfie didn’t bear repeating.

Back then though, he hadn’t had anyone like Charlie to talk to. Gabriel was good for advice on most things, but his romantic advice was usually far too outlandish, too  _ Gabriel _ for Castiel to even attempt. He didn’t dare hope that this wouldn’t end the same way. And yet...

Their coffees arrived: huge, decorative, abominations in tall glasses with a heaping serving of whipped cream balanced delicately on top. “What is this?” Castiel said, poking at the whipped cream, “Why is my coffee white?”

“It’s their Christmas latte, they have new ones every year,” Charlie grinned, taking a hearty gulp.

“It’s November,” Castiel said, “what’s this one? Santa’s heart attack?”

“You’re funny,” Charlie said sweetly, “it’s gingerbread, and it’s delicious.” Aside from the almost unbearable sweetness, Castiel had to admit defeat. “Where is Dean anyway?” Charlie asked.

Castiel sighed, leaning back against the cushions piled at his back.

“He’s at the Roadhouse,” he mumbled, “with Jo.”

“Jo?”

“She’s a childhood friend of Dean’s, this gorgeous blonde with brown eyes. Dean’s future wife,” Castiel said, spreading his hands.

“Ah,” Charlie said, folding her hands in front of her, “you’re jealous.”

Castiel rolled his eyes, “I don’t know.”

“Wait, is she the one that’s always bringing you guys food? ‘Cause she’s super-cute. Sorry!” Charlie added at Castiel's glare. She switched tactics, “Have you at least stopped pretending you don’t like him yet?”

Castiel considered lying, but with Charlie’s ability to read him, it seemed a little pointless. He nodded slowly, “Yeah, I think so.”

Dean was happy for the solitude on his walk into town. Missouri’s little house was full-to-the-brim and his head felt fit to burst. Thoughts of college, finals, the garden, his dad, Sam, Cas. It was a whole lot to sift through, and difficult, it turned out, when dealing with it all at once. The walk felt like a day off. Dean purposefully shut off his thoughts, brushed away anything that wasn’t directly related to walking into town. One thing at a time. Dean pulled his jacket tighter around him, almost wishing he’d grabbed a scarf. All the scarves in the house belonged to Missouri though, and were mostly brightly colored and scented with patchouli. His dad would have killed him if he’d caught Dean wearing one.

The Roadhouse, when he finally got there, sat atop a gravel parking lot, the dark wood paneling warm in the bright winter sunshine. Dean pushed open the door. Jo was wiping the bar top, in a tight black v-neck and jeans, her golden hair was gently curled and fell about her delicate shoulders. Dean couldn’t deny she was gorgeous.

She looked up at the sound of the door sinking closed, a little bell trilling merrily.

“Hey, stranger,” she grinned. Her wide brown eyes tracked his movements over to the bar and she threw him a cloth, “Gimme a hand?” Dean was happy to help, the monotonous cleaning and wiping giving him something,  _ anything _ else to concentrate on. Jo smelled like shampoo and something altogether more intoxicating.

“So, why are we doin’ this right now?” Dean asked, flipping the cloth over his shoulder, “surely the punters are due.”

Jo gave him a bashful smile, “Couldn’t be bothered last night.”

“Where’s your mom?”

Jo sighed, “She gets bad migraines. Left me to man the fort last night, and she takes Saturday mornings off. She’ll be back later with any luck.”

Dean considered the bar, the bottles of liquor behind him, “Wait, ain’t that against the law? You servin’ liquor?”

Jo laughed, a bright, happy sound, “Oh yeah, totally. But, my mom hasn’t got anyone else so…” She went pensive as she wiped down the taps one by one. When she turned back to him, her smile had disappeared without trace, “You really don’t remember us?”

Dean flinched, “I think I remember 8th grade,” he admitted hesitantly.

Jo nodded with a shy smile just gracing her lips, “Me, too.”

“Missouri told me they had a bet on that we’d get married,” Dean chuckled, trying to lighten the tone, get Jo back to smiling because he couldn’t handle her eyes when they looked like that, distant and guarded.

She scoffed, “Yeah. We had a little wedding, actually.”

Dean barked a short laugh as the memory came flooding back, “We totally did. I remember that.”

Jo smirked, “Still waiting on the settlement.”

Customers came in soon after, just a trickle of the local OAPs in for their morning medicine and the crossword. Mostly for company, Dean suspected, as they sat at the bar and chirped away at Jo, who leant against the bar, rapt and friendly. She nodded, and she laughed in all the right places, took their flirtations with grace and charm and Dean watched her, fondness blooming in his chest.

He remembered that wedding completely, in Missouri’s garden, beneath the dogwood tree with its white blossoms towering above them. They’d held hands in front of Minister Sam, wearing a jacket Missouri had dug up from the back of her closet. It hung from his hands like another pair of arms. Dean had even kissed the bride: his first kiss. How had he forgotten that? The blush that rose on Jo’s cheeks, how her eyes had searched his face before bursting into laughter, shoving his shoulder and flinging her veil to the ground. Dean had been chasing her around the garden, had finally pinned her on the soft grass with Sam’s help when…

When John arrived to take them away.

Dean polished the wine glasses to a brilliant shine, considering Jo, already pouring out fifths of whiskey along with cups of strong black coffee.

He was definitely attracted to her, with her charm and her sharp wit, her quick mind and openness. He didn’t have to try very hard to imagine a life with her. Hell, standing at the bar, he could imagine being here every day with her, content as could be.

The problem with starting on anything was John. He had a habit of appearing at the most inopportune moments. But Dean would be eighteen in a matter of months. After that he wouldn’t have to go with his dad. He could stay wherever he chose. Hell, he could probably take Sam with him, too. They could stay here, with Missouri, and Dean could…

What the hell, right?

The way his hair stood on end when Jo brushed past him wasn’t nothing, the gentle fizz of arousal at the pit of his stomach wasn’t nothing. If he wanted to get his mind off Cas, prove to himself that all of that… whatever that was, was just a fluke, a mistake, this was his chance.

Dean switched to charm offensive.

He sought any chance to get close to Jo: handing her glasses, he would make sure to brush his fingers over hers, to hold her gaze just a little longer than comfortable, to compliment her, toeing the line of inappropriate, just so.

And by lunchtime, when Ellen arrived, and Jo had sat down with Dean and a couple of burgers, Dean was about fit to burst. There was a nervous energy bubbling just beneath his skin, writhing and squirming and making him shudder. If Jo was feeling the same, she was doing a good job at hiding it. Sweat prickled at his hairline.

Ellen called, coming over with heavy-looking books in her arms, “I was looking through our albums last night.”

“Mom, please,” Jo groaned. Ellen lay the albums down on the table, pinching Jo’s cheek with a chuckle as she left. Jo pushed them towards Dean with a disgusted scowl, “Be my guest.”

Dean saw his chance, standing up and pushing the albums back, slipping into the booth beside Jo, crowding a little closer than necessary with a quick excuse, “Your memory’s better than mine.”

Jo rolled her eyes, but there was a fondness there, as she opened the album. Dean grinned at the first picture; a tiny Jo, pigtails and missing teeth, grinning directly at the camera. He and Sam didn’t have childhood photos. In fact, Dean had had only one photo in his possession for as long as he could remember. John had burnt their family albums. Everything that had a trace of Mary Winchester on it. Save that one photo of the two of them, Dean’s blonde bowl-cut hair falling into his eyes, grinning toothily around a PB&J. Mary held him close, bent over the back of his chair, hair falling over his shoulder. Dean had stolen it from one of John’s photo albums, kept it secret, safe in his wallet.

“Here we go,” Jo smiled begrudgingly, pointing to two children sat on either side of a booth, much like the one they had been sat, “this is when we first met.”

Dean snorted. His face was sunburnt and full of freckles, his hair stuck up in all directions. Jo had on jelly shoes. “Where’s Sammy?”

“He wasn’t much older than two.”

“What?” Dean frowned, “We’ve known each other that long?”

Jo laughed, “Well yeah, but we only ever saw you guys maybe once every few years.”

Truth was, in those years between, Dean and Sam still weren’t with John for very long. They’d make another go at being a family. A new town, a new school. But John would break. Every single time. There were people he knew, and people he didn’t, but Dean and Sam always became someone else’s problem. Like clockwork, every few months. The faces of the people he met, school peers and teachers, neighbours, they all blurred into one. Dean could barely tell one place from another.

Dean swallowed back the sudden wave of despair as Jo sifted through the pages. Jo on her first bike, black and red with fingerless leather gloves covering her tiny hands. Dean, Jo and Sam with ice creams as big as their heads, melting onto their hands as they smiled, messy-mouthed for the picture. A picnic in the park, their eyes shaded with hats, wiry bodies golden with the sun.

As he reached for the corner of the page, Jo did the same and their hands met. Warmth spread fast up his arm from the contact, and Dean took it as a sure-fire sign that he’d been right.

“Dean,” Jo said, clearing her throat, “I, uh, I wanted to ask you something.”

Dean didn’t waste another moment, confident he knew exactly what she was going to ask. He surged forwards, capturing her lips with his own. Apart from a couple of catcalls around the room, nothing much else happened…

He felt Jo’s face scrunch and he pulled away, his stomach swooping.

_ That was dumb. _

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Dean mumbled, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Um,” she laughed, “Thanks? I was actually going to ask you about that red head I keep seeing come out of Missouri’s…” Dean’s skin was boiling. He scooted out of the booth, slinking back in to the other side and staring at the table top, feeling quite the prize idiot. “Hey,” Jo chuckled, rubbing at his forearm, “I’m flattered, really, but…” He looked up to see an amusement staring back at him. He felt sick.

“But?” he croaked.

Jo’s eyes rolled, “I don’t bat for your team.”

Dean’s functionality short-circuited, sputtering like a dying engine, “Huh?”

“The redhead? Drives a cute yellow car?”

“Charlie?”

Jo grins, “I was hoping to get her number.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Dean chuckled, “you like her? Like…  _ like her _ , like her?”

“Jesus,” Jo laughed, “newsflash, Dean, not everyone wants to jump your bones.”

Dean had always had somewhat of a transparent face, so he wasn’t surprised when Jo slapped at his arm, hard enough to sting, snapping him successfully out of the pretty picture Jo had painted for him.

“Don’t you dare be imagining anything, Winchester.” Dean held his hands up in mock surrender, which seemed enough to placate her. He gave her Charlie’s number, but his brain was firing all over again. Had he even felt anything when he kissed Jo just then? He’d thought all signs had been pointing to that being the best decision: the shuddering, the prickles along his skin, the hammering of his heart…

It wasn’t really any different from what he’d been feeling these past few weeks with… now he really  _ was _ going to puke.

“Jo,” Dean murmured, fiddling with a napkin, “I uh…”

“You okay?” Jo said, leaning over the table, “You look a little pale.”

Dean stood with a tight smile, trying desperately to shut out all thoughts from his brain which was screaming, banging its fists against his skull.

“I gotta go,” he chuckled, rubbing at the back of his neck, before stumbling from the booth and out the door.


	15. Phlox

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Tracks for Chapter:  
> Progress - Clem Leek  
> Two Wooden Spoons - This Is The Kit  
> Strings Of Gold - I will, I Swear

Dean didn’t speak to Jo for a good few days after the failed kiss and subsequent freak out. He’d not really spoken to anyone; the number of unanswered messages was steadily teetering on offensive. He’d even ignored a call from John, promising himself he’d return it whenever this… panic was done. Above all, Dean Winchester kept a wide berth from Castiel. It was a hard one to explain, since they were almost always in the same place at the same time. Cas would aim that tilted-head, flummoxed stare of his and Dean would tuck tail. He used any excuse. Whatever this was, it centered around Cas, and it quietened when Dean was as far away from him as humanly possible.

Besides, he didn’t even really know what was going on. It couldn’t be a _ crush.  _ Dean didn’t like guys. John would kill him if he did. As far as John was concerned, Dean was headed for the all-American-apple-pie life: wife, white picket fence, the whole nine.

So, he tried to keep a constant, obsessively measured distance between him and Cas at all times, because if Cas got too close, Dean would get shivers and goose-pimples and he just couldn’t deal with it. So, he simply wasn’t going to.

Charlie was a welcome distraction though; she took him to several D&D campaigns, which Dean loved possibly even more than Moondor and gallivanting about the local woods in chainmail. In those sessions, usually stretching well into the night in Harry’s parent’s basement, Dean was a level four Hunter by the name of Marshall Eastwood. He specialized in perception, investigation, and insight. All things, Dean realised, he wished he had more of in real life - upwards and including a sneaky rat he called Mr. Business who was a particularly shrewd protector. Best of all, Marshall Eastwood didn’t have to think at all about how blue Castiel’s eyes were, or how gentle he was with his hands. So that was good.

Wednesday afternoon’s study period was spent on Biology for Dean, which he loathed more than any of his other subjects. He’d taken it for obvious, childish reasons, not to mention it was rumored to be the easiest of the sciences but dammit, the human body was complicated. Cas was absorbed in his copy of Hamlet, brow furrowed. He leaned down to the coffee table now and then to scrawl neat notes in the margins in his tiny handwriting. Every so often his phone would vibrate, and he’d stare at the screen with that same knit-together brow.

Charlie nudged him under the table.

“What’s going on?” she mouthed, cocking her head towards Cas.

“Nothing,” Dean replied, giving up on biology to work on physics. Which he loved. Charlie snatched the textbook from his hands with a scowl, forcing the biology book back in front of him.

“You can already do physics, Dean,” she smiled, “waste of valuable time going over things you already know.”

He glared at her, resuming his reluctant study. She poked his arm again, “Seriously,” she mouthed, “what’s happening with you two?”

“Nothing,” Dean said, forgetting to mouth it. Cas looked up and frowned, his gaze flitting between the two of them. Charlie looked impatiently to Dean, and he tried not to cringe into the couch at his back.

“Dean,” she said through gritted teeth, “can I have a word?”

As soon as she closed the lounge door behind her and they were crammed into the little hallway, Charlie crossed her arms, her foot tapping relentlessly against the carpet.

“Spill,” she said.

Dean shrugged, “I told you, it’s nothing.”

“You’ve been weird since the weekend, Dean. What’s going on?” Dean looked to her, wanting so desperately in that moment to tell her, but the words stuck in his throat like tar, stubborn and thick. “Did something happen over the weekend? With…  _ Jo, _ is it?”

God bless Charlie Bradbury.

Dean sighed dramatically, trying to hide his relief, “Yeah.”

Charlie’s expression turned sympathetic as she rubbed at his upper arm, “You wanna talk about it?”

Dean’s face boiled, and he rubbed at the back of his neck; a self-soothe thing he’d done since he was a child. He tried to calm his heart, which was hammering so hard Dean was sure Charlie could hear it.

“I uh,” he stuttered, taking a deep breath, “I kissed her.”

Charlie swallowed a laugh, Dean watched it happen, but she had the good grace to look at least a little apologetic.

“How did that go?”

Dean scoffed, “Not good. Turns out she’s not uh…into guys...”

“She’s gay?” Charlie said with her brow gently furrowed, “Huh… Guess my radar’s a little off. So, you’re… just feeling awkward about it or is there something else?”

“Awkward, yeah,” Dean answered quickly, “just… yeah. She’s a good friend and, I don’t know, maybe I ruined it somehow.”

Charlie’s eyes were laser focused, as if she were reading something beneath his skin. Dean squirmed, terrified of what she might find but was saved by a knock at the front door. Dean answered it gratefully, stopping short as he saw Jo, dressed in a loose plaid shirt, tight blue jeans, her hair in its usual curls around her shoulders. Dean’s heart stopped, and a wave of panic took over his ability to say a word.

“Hey,” she said, holding up a bag from the Roadhouse, “you weren’t at Bobby’s.”

“‘S Wednesday,” Dean slurred, his vision blurring. He felt Charlie come up behind him, peering over his shoulder.

“Jo, right?” Charlie said, squeezing into the doorway and offering her hand, “I’m Charlie. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Jo’s smile was bright, even a little shy as she took Charlie’s hand. Dean watched as they shook for two moments too long.

“You, uh, wanna?” he struggled, his tongue heavy and clumsy. He was entirely unsure of the boundaries, whether he’d broken them, crossed them, shattered them beyond all recognition.

Jo refocused back to Dean and shook her head, “No, I should be getting back.” She handed over the bag, heavy with greasy burgers and pointed a pair of incredibly awkward finger guns at Charlie, “See you around, red?”

Charlie scoffed, “Sure thing, squirt. Bring me one next time, huh?”

Jo stuffed her hands in her pockets, her shoulders bunched high about her ears, “You got it.”

As Dean shut the door, some of the tension released. Jo hadn’t been mad… she’d brought them food, gone to Bobby’s and had been disappointed not to find them there. Maybe they were fine. Maybe he hadn’t ruined everything.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Charlie smiled, but her eyes were still looking deeper than Dean was truly comfortable with, so he offered her nothing but a tight smile before he ducked back into the living room.

There was a bite to the air, as fall slowly tipped into winter. The dark was already beginning to gather behind the clouds, grey and fit to burst with the first snow. Castiel had always loved the winter, the darkness of the mornings, turning bright and crisp with the sun, the sky completely clear and blue. The air was brisk, and his breath puffed in clouds from his lips.

Castiel had received fewer lewd text messages of late, the ones he did get were almost tame in tone. Perhaps Alastair had given up, figured out that Castiel wasn’t going to rise to it. He and Dean had met Charlie in the library earlier to gather resources, before heading over to the Roadhouse. Castiel had declined their invitation, and instead sat quietly in the garden, reading the latest messages from Claire:

_ Missouri got in touch, she’s awesome! Got a job at the dollar tree _

_ Missouri’s trying to track down my mom’s sister. Maggie’s helping. _

_ Call me soon, miss you. _

“Thought I’d find you here,” Missouri called from the edge of the fence, “was just off to see Bobby,” She plucked curiously at the tear, “this the door?” Castiel smiled, heading over and pulling back the fence to let her in. She strode confidently, as she always did, to the middle of the garden, spinning slowly with her eyes closed.

“It feels… goodness, Cas, do you feel it? That energy?” she said, voice hushed, holding her arms out wide as if to accept some invisible gift. Castiel swayed on his feet, discomfort pulling his expression down into a scowl.

“Loosen up,” she laughed, bumping her shoulder into his arm, “just close your eyes, you’ll feel it.”  

Castiel hesitantly closed his eyes after a few furtive glances for onlookers.

There _ was _ something. A peculiar thrumming beneath his feet. A low hum. If he concentrated hard, he could hear a whisper on the breeze. Perhaps he was just imagining it. Even if he were, he reasoned, it didn’t make it any less real.

“You feel it, right?” Missouri whispered, “This place, it’s alive. It was waiting all this time.” They stood a while, soaking in the blackbird’s song, the sounds of the street. Castiel hadn’t the guts to ask Gabriel about his trial, but Missouri was honest, talked him through what might happen when the case eventually went to trial.

“Claire told me you’re looking for her aunt,” Castiel said, mindful to keep his voice quiet so as not to disturb the peace that surrounded them, “thank you. For helping her.”

Missouri turned with a wide grin, “I said I’d help, didn’t I?”

Missouri left Castiel soon after, making her way to Bobby’s, armed with her basketful of herbs. His eyes were tired, but Bobby looked in better spirits when he opened the door. She followed him to the kitchen, picking her way through a deluge of Roadhouse wrappers to find a kettle on the stove. She bustled around as though the room was her own, sprinkling herbs into her strainer, rubbing them between her life-worn palms.

“The garden’s lookin’ good,” Missouri grinned when she was all done, handing Bobby the steaming cup. She must have looked unusual, like a technicolor painting hung in a monochrome gallery. His smile was a little strained, but it was a smile nonetheless, and she took that as a small victory.

“Yeah,” Bobby said, “they’re good boys.”

“They are,” she agreed, her chest warming. The garden was truly helping in a way she could have never foreseen. Castiel was calmer, helpful, _ nice.  _ He was so good with Sam, and he and Dean were no longer sparring in the trenches. His attendance at school was first rate, and his grades were slowly rising. She’d even caught him on several occasions diligently writing in various exercise books by the time she switched off the downstairs lights before bed around midnight.

“I was thinkin’-” Bobby said, after a sip of his tea, considering his cup with raised eyebrows, “this is good.”

Missouri laughed, “Dandelion and chicory root, for that poor liver.”

Bobby cocked an eyebrow.

“Don’t say I don’t do nothin’ for ya.”

“It’s been a week since my last taste of the ol’ rotgut,” Bobby said. His voice was quiet but there was a hint of pride there, too.

“It has?” Missouri asked, leaning back against the kitchen counter, “how’re you feeling?”

“Like I could use a drink,” Bobby huffed, taking another sip of his tea, “this is good though.”

“What was it you were you thinkin’?”

“Oh right, yeah, I was thinkin’... ‘bout that garden. Maybe we could do somethin’ with it, after the boys get it all planted up.” Missouri smiled. Inside Bobby, through the haze of his grief and no-fuss sentimentalities, lay a heart full-to-the-brim with good. He was a mess now, a true tangled walker sure, but he’d heal. “Like, maybe some sort of… I don’t know, maybe it’s dumb.”

“Stop it, Bobby,” Missouri scolded gently, “what is it?”

“I was just thinkin’ maybe some sort of… at-risk-kid… community… thing.”

Missouri chuckled in delight, “Sounds perfect, Bobby.”

“You think it’s a good idea?” Bobby said, rubbing his hat across his head, his face reddening.

“It’s wonderful, Bobby, really,” she leant over to pat his arm, noticing his empty cup, “more tea?”


	16. Snowdrop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Tracks for Chapter:  
> Never Understood - Gerard And The Watchmen  
> Dreams - Twin Oaks  
> Love's Glory - Christof Van Der Ven  
> An Evening I Will Not Forget - Dermot Kennedy

On the first of December, Charlie picked Castiel up in the Gremlin, stifling hot with the heaters blasting so loudly he could barely hear her talk. Nerves swam in his stomach, his mouth tasted of bananas. Missouri had made him a breakfast shake out of them, told him their slow-releasing energy would help him through the tests. He hoped she was right.

He had texted Claire the night before, to let her know the plan. While she had problems that were far bigger than this, he felt it was something she should know about. He re-read her reply from this morning, written in all caps, and in such a way that he could hear it in her voice,

_ YES CAS DO IT. KEEPING EVERYTHING CROSSED, EVEN MY EYES. _

Parker High loomed, larger than their school by a country mile. Charlie threw the Gremlin into park and breathed deeply.

“Don’t tell me you’re nervous,” Castiel teased.

“A little,” Charlie nodded, resting her forehead on the wheel. Castiel reached over, took her shoulder in his hand and squeezed gently. She’d been studying so long for this, and he understood there was a lot riding on today, but he knew that she would have no trouble. A few more deep breaths and Charlie turned to him with a gentle smile.

“Okay,” she said, patting his arm, “let’s do this thing.”

Castiel and the Winchester brothers piled into Bobby’s stifling living room after school, as the darkness gathered outside. The roaring fire pooled sweat in Castiel’s lower back instantly. Bobby had finally organised the books and loose papers under Missouri’s sporadic supervision, in other words, whatever she could spare when she wasn’t caring for the three of them, at work, or in her office trying her best to forward the search for Claire’s forever home. Needless to say, her sessions with Bobby were few and far between. The lounge was tidy, yes, a far more livable state than it had been the first time Castiel had seen it. But the kitchen, just as before, remained in abject chaos.

It would be unfair of Castiel to say that Bobby hadn’t  _ tried _ to reorganise, cleanse. In fact, it seemed he’d gotten the hang of it in the interim. Castiel could hear him upstairs, floorboards groaning above their heads as he ferried bulging garbage bags down the stairs. His cheeks were ruddy beneath his greying whiskers. But he looked healthy. Happy. Just as Castiel stepped in to lend a hand, he felt his phone begin to vibrate against his leg. He excused himself, his stomach lurching excitedly at the number on his screen. He ducked out the front door, into the snow that had just begun to dust the grass of Bobby’s front lawn. He shivered.

“An inmate from Dane County Jail is attempting to contact you,” came the automated voice, “to accept this call please press one.”

Castiel’s hands, quickly reddening from the chill, trembled as he accepted, clutching the phone with both hands.

“Cassie!” Gabriel cried, “How’s my baby bro? Tell me everything.”

Castiel’s cheeks ached with his smile and the winter chill that buffeted against his cheeks, “Gabriel, how are you?”

“You know, in prison,” Gabriel joked lightly, “could be better. You still at Missouri’s?”

“Yes,” Castiel smiled, unable to think of much more than how good it felt to have Gabriel close again.

“Good. So… you behavin’?”

“Of course.”

“No more fights?”

Castiel paused. He needed to tell somebody about the texts, the stalking, the unease that tainted his every moment but every time he tried, something stoppered his voice. Doubt, maybe. A belief that his problems probably weren’t as terrible as others’. He didn’t want to sour the tone of what was destined to be a short conversatio n. What would Gabriel accomplish from his cell anyway?

“None,” he smiled easily, “and you?”

“Scouts’ honor, I haven’t shanked anyone yet.”

“Gabriel.”

“I’m stayin’ out of trouble, kid, you don’t have to worry. You hear anythin’ from mom?”

Castiel sighed, leaning back against the front door jamb, “Nope.”

“Yeah, me neither. I’ve asked Garth to see if he could look into it.”

“Garth?”

“My lawyer. Total dork. So, you gonna come visit me over Christmas? I think I’m gonna get my visitation back real soon.”

“You got it revoked?”

Gabriel had the good grace to sound sheepish, “Maybe.”

“Please, just be good in there, don’t make this worse.”

“Hey, ain’t my fault these assholes ain’t got manners. How’s school, your grades up?”

“Actually, yeah. I’ve been studying with this girl Charlie,” Gabriel made a nauseating kissy noise down the phone, though Castiel was pretty sure his brother new about his inclinations, “and Dean.”

“Dean? That kid at Missouri’s? You guys gettin’ along now, that’s awesome.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Castiel scoffed, glancing through the window to where Dean sat , face lit by the crackling fire , “You found any friends in there?”

“Uhm, I guess this one guy had the chance to sucker punch me but didn’t, and this other guy didn’t tip over my lunch tray so, yeah maybe slumber party this weekend.”

“Just stay good, promise.”

The automated voice spoke again, warning them of their one-minute remaining.

“Alright, alright, I promise. You gonna come visit me over Christmas, then?” Gabriel repeated, his voice bright.

“I’ll try,” Castiel smiled into the receiver, “I’ll ask if Missouri can take me over.”

“That’d be awesome. Miss you, little bro.”

Castiel cradled the phone close to his cheek with both hands, a slow ache prying at his ribs, “Miss you, too.”

“You take care of yourself, okay? Don’t let anyone boss you around, work hard, stay in scho-” The line cut off, the beep merciless, a flat-line.

Gabriel used to tell him a story, when he was very little. Said Valerie used it on his first day of kindergarten. Something about an invisible string that linked hearts together. Gabriel would remind him each day when the separation proved too much for Castiel to handle. He’d tug from his chest, tell Castiel they were always connected, even when they couldn’t see one another. And, if Castiel ever missed Gabriel, he would tug at that string, and imagine Gabriel could feel it. He did that now, tugged at the air before his heart, with more self-consciousness than he’d had as a child, but it gave him some comfort.

Castiel stared at Bobby’s front lawn, crawling with weeds and knee-high grass, the worn path through the undergrowth to the front door where he stood. His phone buzzed and Castiel sighed heavily before glancing down to see another text.

_ Is this where you and Dean go to fuck? Does the old man watch? _

Castiel’s head snapped back up, scanning the area with squinted eyes, taking in every lamppost and tree, every window of every house, the spaces between them. Nothing. His breath fogged huge clouds before his eyes as it quickened. He whirled to look behind him, seeing only Bobby’s front door. His skin crawled, a thousand eyes roamed over him from the dark.  _ Enough, _ he thought,  _ that’s enough. _ He stormed to the gate, out onto the sidewalk, spinning around in the middle of the road.

“You got nothing better to do?” he yelled at the empty street, “Huh, Alastair? That’s right, I know it’s you. I get it, I stole from you, but this isn’t funny. This ends  _ now _ .”

He gritted his teeth, eyes straining for the slightest sign of movement . Nothing. He shrank back into the safety of the house, leaning against the door and calming his breathing. Sweat prickled at his hairline and he wiped at it with a shaking hand.

_ Get a grip _ , he thought to himself as he steeled himself, heading back into the lounge.

“-should be in the woodshop somewhere.”

_ Lord, bless Bobby _ , he thought, grateful for the easy distraction.

“The woodshop?” Castiel asked, amping up his interest for anything else to think about.  Three pairs of eyes turned to stare at him, and Cas felt his cheeks heat a little. Bobby nodded slowly,

“Yeah, the… are you okay, Cas?”

“I, uh… yeah, it’s just a little hot in here,” Castiel covered, laughing self-consciously, deflecting, “I found it last time we were here, I was meaning to ask you about it.”

Bobby’s face clouded over, and his smile dropped. Castiel felt his stomach swoop downwards; no longer reveling in that look on people’s faces. He held his hands together to quell the shake. “I shouldn’t… sorry, Bobby, I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Bobby waved him away with his stubby fingers, worn and calloused with a life of hard work. “Ain’t no secret,” Bobby said, his voice introspective, “I used to build stuff there… for the garden.”

Sam and Dean sat a little straighter from their spots on the floor, backs against the sofa. Castiel forced himself back into the present moment, hovering in the doorway, before lowering himself gingerly to the corner of the couch. The garden… Castiel recalled the photograph he’d found. No way that was the same place.

“You owned it?” Sam said, his eyes wide.

Bobby shrugged, “Not out-right, no. But nobody else was usin’ it. Looked much like it did before you boys cleared it up when we first saw it.”

“We?” Sam asked, his cheeks coloring almost immediately at Bobby’s downcast eyes.

“My wife… Karen and I.”

Castiel silently begged Sam not to ask where she was. Something in his gut told him he already knew. In all that concentrating on not thinking about Dean, though-

“What happened? Where is she?” Dean asked, causing Castiel’s fists to clench.

Bobby sighed heavily, rubbing at his eyes, hidden by his baseball cap.  “She died, few years ago now.” The room fell into a silence, the very specific kind that only follows news of great sorrow.

“I’m sorry,” Dean blurted, “I-”

“S’okay,” Bobby placated with a gentle hand in the air, “you couldn’t have known.” He took off his cap then to reveal sandy brown hair, plastered against his scalp, molded to the shape of that hat. He scrubbed a hand down over his face before replacing the cap once more.

“The garden… Karen loved it. She loved flowers. I told her I’d plant her a thousand. Built her the planters in the shop downstairs and a shed; she painted it all the brightest colors, pinks, oranges, yellows. Happiest damn time of our lives.”

Castiel remembered clearing the pile of burnt wood, covered over with tangled vines and dying leaves, tucked away in the corner of the garden. Bobby saw that expression if his next utterance was anything to go by.

“I destroyed it after she… when she…”

Castiel’s heart began to ache. Castiel had never understood love, but he was beginning to. To have that taken away, slowly or suddenly, must be the most unbearable pain. Castiel felt it, phantom-like. Losing a person felt a little like losing a limb. His mom, his dad, Bobby’s pregnant wife; he imagined Bobby talking aloud in this empty house, momentarily forgetting that Karen wasn’t going to answer him.

“It means a lot… I know she’d… she’d be so happy to know you boys cleared it all up. I let it go to shit. I just couldn’t be there no more. So, I locked it up. Covered the entrance, busted the gate.”

Sam left the room suddenly, without ceremony and returned with his hands behind his back, “Mr. Singer-”

“Was my father.”

“Bobby,” Sam corrected, revealing in his hand a bulb, it’s roots hairy and dirty with soil, “I found this in one of your old pots in the backyard.”

Bobby cleared his throat, the way grown men do to stop themselves from crying.

“If we’re talking about what Karen would want...” Sam hedged, sounding so much older than anyone in the room.

Bobby rubbed furiously at his eyes, his breathing a little labored. Sam moved first, just a tentative hand to the shoulder, Dean soon followed, his eyes full of something closer to understanding than pity. The Winchesters knew that pain intimately.

Castiel stood a little way back, uncomfortably aware of how much he wanted to comfort, but also of his inability to do so, struck dumb in the face of such sorrow.

“You’re right,” Bobby sighed a few minutes later. He smiled up at the three of them. It was shy, and it was tentative, but it was definitely there, shining in his eyes which brimmed with tears.

“She’d have it beautiful again.”

December in Wisconsin was bleak, white-washed, cold enough to make you shiver beneath three layers of clothes, but in Janesville, there were pockets of warmth. Castiel and Dean had their last study group with Charlie, the Friday before the holidays. She looked exhausted, clearly defined bags beneath her eyes put there by finals she swore she wasn’t been nervous to take, but she smiled brightly all the same, clinked her cup of cocoa together with theirs.

“You did it,” she said, “I never… you guys did so good.”

“We did it,” Dean insisted, “and ‘s all on you, Gingernut,” Dean grinned, reaching across the coffee table to rub at her hair.

“Oh stop,” Charlie chuckled, batting Dean’s hand away, “I barely did anything.”

Castiel shrugged, “I don’t know about that, Charlie. Just take the credit, it’s due.”

Her eyes softened, “You’ve changed, Cas.”

Castiel rolled his eyes, “I don’t know what you mean.”

Castiel sat at that table, tapping his pen against the paper. Too desperate for tomorrow to write his essay. He had been this way all week; tomorrow was visitation day. It had taken a lot, there were forms he and Missouri had to fill out and send back to the prison, a list of rules and a specific dress code. If Castiel stopped to think on it for too long, the anxiety threatened to overwhelm him. So, he settled for counting down the hours until he’d see his brother again.

He must’ve seemed distracted, otherwise Charlie wouldn’t be looking at him the way she was.

“Everything okay, Cas?”

Castiel stalled. Charlie didn’t know about Gabriel. Didn’t know anything about his past. He looked to Dean, a default setting.

“Cas is visiting his brother tomorrow,” Dean supplied for him, “he’s just excited.”

“If that’s his excited face…” Charlie joked.  “Your brother out of town? I didn’t even know you had one.”

“He’s, um…” Castiel looked at Charlie. She had become one of his best friends, he reasoned it made no sense to keep this from her. “He’s in jail,” he finished, looking at his hands.

“Holy shit,” Charlie said, “what happened?”

Castiel shook his head, losing his nerve.

“You nervous?” Charlie asked, “You look nervous.”

“A little,” Castiel laughed, “I don’t know what to expect.”

Charlie shrugged, “Expect to see your brother.”

Charlie wished him good luck when she left. Castiel couldn’t quell the nerves in his stomach. He was scared. Even with Missouri there, he was scared. Afraid of what he’d find, worried for Gabriel’s safety. Was Gabriel still  _ Gabriel _ ? Or had prison broken his spirit? He’d always sounded cheery enough during their calls but what if it was all just a front?

He sat heavily on the couch, pulling out the photos he’d taken from Gabe’s room all those months before, from his pillowcase. He slept every night with his hand pressed against them.

“Who’s that?”

Castiel tried to hide the photos but he was too slow for Dean, who was already sinking onto the couch beside him.

“Was that your brother?”  

Castiel hesitated, the look on his face clearly enough to cause Dean to put up his hands in surrender. “I don’t mean to pry,” he said, “Just… I’ve never seen him.”

Castiel paused, his hands stuttering as he handed the photos over to Dean. There wasn’t much point in hiding them, only that they were personal. But he’d already told Dean the hard bits of his recent past, sharing a few photos was walk in the park, by comparison.

“So, that’s Gabriel?” Dean said, pointing at Gabe’s smiling face.  Castiel nodded, watching Dean frown as his eyes fell on Michael. “That’s not you… who’s that?” Castiel smiled ruefully. His mother had always told him how much he looked like Michael. Said it was part of the reason his dad left them.

“That’s Michael,” Castiel answered.

“I didn’t know you had two brothers, where’s he?” Dean smiled, completely oblivious to how loaded his question was. How could he know?

“He’s dead.”

Dean’s face fell, went pale. His mouth flapped on aborted words before he looked back down at Michael, only five or six when the photo was taken, a few months before he died.

“What happened?” Dean whispered, his eyes brimming with regret.

“I don’t know. He died when I was a baby,” Castiel shrugged. He couldn’t remember the story; nobody talked about Michael in the Krushnic house. It hurt too much. Castiel seemed to be the only one who wasn’t hugely affected, having been too young to even remember him. It was a sore spot for Gabriel, and for his mother… any mention of him triggered unpredictable responses.

“Do you remember him at all?” Dean asked, his eyes searching Castiel’s face. Castiel shook his head. His earliest memory was the suckers his mom used to get from the Credit Union. He had no idea where they came from, only that his were always blue.

“S’gonna be okay, you know,” Dean said suddenly, “Tomorrow? It’s gonna be fine.”

Castiel nodded, taking his photographs back and hugging them close to his chest.

Castiel and Missouri piled into her car the next morning, his knee bouncing with anticipation the whole drive. Missouri turned up the radio, probably trying to help drown out his spiraling thoughts. It helped a little. He had hoped he could give Gabriel the photographs, but Missouri had stopped him at the door. If he didn’t want to lose them, she’d said, better leave them at home. He’d really hoped they’d brighten up Gabriel’s cell a little.

When they pulled up to the parking lot, the car was searched thoroughly. Apart from a pair of muddy walking shoes and windscreen washer in the trunk, the officers found nothing and waved them through to the facility, where the car was checked a second time.

Castiel’s leg bounced constantly.

Next, they themselves were searched upon entering the building, brusque and unforgiving hands sweeping up his legs and cupping his pockets. Castiel grit his teeth while Missouri stored her keys and handbag in a locker to the side. Leading them to a glass window, she signed him in, smoothing a visitor sticker onto Castiel’s chest. He wondered if she could feel the hammering of his heart.

Missouri’s smile was tense. Castiel knew she’d been afraid to bring him, worried that this would be too much, but he mustered some bravery as they were both led into the visitation room. There were several people already sat and waiting. A Latina woman with tattoos covering both her arms, bounced a baby on her jean-clad knee, cooing softly.

Castiel craned his neck to try and spot Gabriel in the lineup outside the door. He thought he could see a shock of light brown hair, poking out over the shoulder of another inmate.

At the cruel sound of the buzzer, a guard swung open the door and the prisoners entered, in single file. Castiel stood, watching his brother approach as his heart began thudding in his chest. Gabriel made a beeline for him, scooping him up into an awkward embrace between his cuffed wrists before he even said a word. Castiel clung to him, as he hadn’t in years, until a guard to the side barked, “Contact time’s over. In your seats inmates.”

“Hey,” Gabriel said, his voice shaking and his eyes a little watery. He swatted at them before turning to Missouri.  “You must be the one takin’ care of my little bro,” Gabriel said, taking ahold of Missouri’s hand awkwardly,

 

“S’fine, honey, it’s good to finally meet you,” Missouri said, folding both hands over Gabriel’s.

“I wanted to bring you something,” Castiel blurted, “for Christmas, but I wasn’t allowed.”

“Was it the latest Busty Asian Beauties?” Gabriel asked, waggling his eyebrows. Missouri laughed heartily, earning her a furious ‘Shh’ from the guards.

“You boys are like Ying and Yang,” she said, wiping at her eyes.  Castiel laughed, too,

“No, just some old photographs I found.”

“Thanks, Cas, it was a nice thought. But at least now we’re even,” he shrugged, “unless you were hopin’ for some ramen noodles, I got nothin’.”

There was so much to tell him that Castiel struggled to know where to begin. He told him about Claire, Missouri throwing in her two cents about the foster process she had managed to set in motion. He told Gabriel about Dean and Sam and Bobby and the garden, and his grades, Charlie, and Missouri’s crystal collection. Gabriel listened, rapt, like he’d never heard anything so interesting, nodding, laughing and asking questions in all the right places.

“I’m thinking of applying to college,” Castiel hedged, not realising how desperate he had been for Gabriel’s approval until that moment. Gabriel’s eyes widened with his smile.

“Yeah, baby bro! Freakin’ do it, man!”

Missouri laid a hand on his shoulder, “I had no idea, Cas, that’s wonderful.”

Castiel tried very hard not to squirm in his seat, their pride making him uncomfortable. But, armed with Gabriel’s encouragement, Castiel felt all the braver in going ahead with the plan.

Castiel talked so long that when the guard announced the visitation was over, he realised he hadn’t heard anything about Gabriel.

“No, wait,” he said, “I’m not done, wait, Gabriel. What about you?”

Gabriel smiled, pulling him in for one last hug, “Prison is prison, Cassie. Hearing about your life, even for half an hour… it’s more than I could ever ask for. You have a good Christmas, okay? I’ll call you.”

Castiel was desperate as he clung on.

“Hey, you’re gonna get me in trouble,” Gabriel laughed, pulling away, “We’ll talk soon, okay? And I’ll be out before you know it, trust me.”

Castiel was struck with the need to hold his brother’s hand, like he’d done when they were children. He always held Gabriel’s hand when he was scared, and it always made that fear go away. He settled for tugging at his chest, that invisible chord that connected their hearts. Gabriel’s gaze softened, he pulled the chord back. Castiel could feel the touch.

“And thank you, Missouri, for bringin’ him, for… everything. Thank you,” Gabriel said, reaching for Missouri’s hand again, grunting as she pulled him into an enthusiastic hug.

“Wrap it up, ladies,” the guard yelled from the door. Gabriel looked back to Castiel and smiled wide, “Chin up, Cassie, okay? I’m gonna be fine, I can see you worrying.”

“Krushnic!” barked the guard. Castiel’s heart leapt painfully at the sound.

With one final smile, Gabriel turned on his heel and made his way to the door, turning back once more and saluting before the door slammed closed.

When he and Missouri got home, Castiel was pushed into Missouri’s office chair by the woman herself, who watched as he finalised his applications, checking over his personal essay (one of the only things he hadn’t let Charlie be a part of) one last time. Dean and Sam watched from the doorway, Sam practically bouncing on the spot.

Castiel couldn’t pretend he didn’t see the warm smile on Dean’s face.


	17. Queen Anne's Lace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Tracks for Chapter:  
> Let It Breathe - Water Liars  
> Home From Home - Roo Panes  
> Even The Darkness Has Arms - The Barr Brothers  
> Petrichor - Keaton Henson  
> Heavy Weather - Billie Marten  
> Green Moon - Martha Tilston

Christmas was the brightest Castiel had ever seen. The lights twinkled on the tree that butted its head against the ceiling in the lounge, which was now Castiel’s favourite place to be as the house around him slept. He’d lie there in the near-dark, watching the lights blink and twinkle, bathing the whole room in their soft, happy glow.

The Winchester’s were in high spirits. Their father was due for a visit. Castiel was a little apprehensive at the thought of meeting him. From what Castiel had heard, John seemed like a troubled man, gruff and unyielding. But surely, John would be happy to see his boys again. Castiel wondered how long it had been since their last visit.

It was Sam’s idea to cook Christmas dinner. Castiel’s previous forays into cooking mostly included instant noodles; he’d only just mastered the art of not burning toast. Needless to say, he was nervous. It was ludicrous, the three of them tackling Christmas dinner, but they tried. Dean manned the turkey, protecting it fiercely, the baster as his weapon. Castiel peeled endless potatoes until he had a large mountain of them and red, cramped hands. It still didn’t feel like enough. Roast potatoes were the best bit, and he’d be competing with a lot of people for them.

Missouri had invited Bobby, Ellen and Jo over for the occasion. Most of Castiel’s Christmases consisted of trading stolen, foil-wrapped gifts with Gabriel in his room while his mother drank downstairs. Being surrounded by people sounded nice. Like the sort of Christmas other people had on those festive adverts on TV.

“How’s it goin’, boys?” Missouri called from the living room, cuddled up in her dressing gown in her favorite chair in front of the Christmas specials.  

“Good,” they all chimed, even as Dean almost dropped the turkey trying to return it to the oven. He cursed beneath his breath, hot juices dripping into his oven mitts, decorated with bright red apples. Sam snickered from his vegetable station, earning him a swift smack to the back of the head. Castiel brought her a glass of prosecco which Missouri had kept in the fridge for the past few days. It was half past ten in the morning, but it was Christmas, and Missouri was laughing loud, a musical sound that spread like wildfire.

Castiel was turning over the potatoes in the hot oil of the oven when he heard Missouri’s phone ring. All three of them looked up, stopping everything, like meerkats on high alert. The TV was muted. “Hello? John! How are ya, honey? Merry Christmas!”

Dean’s grin was almost wild with glee, and he dropped his utensils to gather himself close to the wall, hiding just behind the archway into the lounge, bringing Sam with him and hugging him close. Castiel returned the potatoes to the oven, earning him an almost silent,  _ Shh _ , from the brothers. He rolled his eyes and continued working; mashing the carrots and swede with healthy knobs of melting butter, following Missouri’s notes, word for word. He kept the brothers in his periphery, watching for their reactions, thinking them ridiculous for hiding in plain sight.

Missouri’s voice turned hushed, losing its usual sunniness. Castiel looked up with a frown, abandoning his post and settling himself just behind the Winchesters to hear a little better.

“-you worry about me, John, what about the boys? Don’t do this to ‘em.” A heavy sigh, a slight waver in her voice, “How am I s’posed to tell ‘em, huh? What am I going say? It’s Christmas John, and you said you’d be- I know. No, I… Alright, John. Okay. You take care now, y’hear?”

Sam was the first to leave, taking off at a sprint straight for the stairs. Castiel flinched as he heard the bedroom door slam. Dean’s eyes were clouded over, and Castiel was horrified to see acceptance in his tight expression. Like Dean had expected this.

That fact was more painful that the letdown.

Missouri came in, sullen, jumping when she found them just by the wall. Castiel quickly returned to their dinner, feeling a little sheepish. “I guess you heard,” she said to Dean, who nodded slowly.  “He says he’ll come for New Year. We’ll have a party, okay? Whatever you boys want. I’m so sorry, honey.”

She held Dean close to her, and he moulded to her easily. They stayed that way for a long time, and Castiel quickly averted his stare as he heard quiet sniffling.

“I’ll go tell Sam,” Dean said once his tears had stopped, “You okay in here for a minute, Cas?” Castiel nodded easily, trying not to stare at Dean’s reddened eyes. Missouri joined him in the kitchen with a heavy sigh and a shake of her head.

“Does he do that a lot?” Castiel asked quietly, “John?” Missouri nodded her head, stirring the stuffing a little too vigorously, “I just… I love John, Lord knows, he’s been through so much, but…”

“You want to slap him until he sees sense?” Castiel said, remembering the arguments he’d had with his mom, stealing her bottles and hiding them, her panicked rage as she searched for them. He’d wanted to scream at her, ask her why she even needed it, why he and Gabriel weren’t enough for her to just be happy. Missouri turned to him with a sad smile and flung her arm about his shoulders. He didn’t shy away; let the closeness to her warm him from the inside.

“Exactly that,” she murmured.

It was nearing three by the time everyone arrived, laden with scarves and hats, stomping the snow off their boots in the narrow hall. Missouri called the boys from the front door where she hugged each of them as they came in, quickly filling the cramped space. And Sam and Castiel were introduced to Jo’s mother Ellen, Jo following along in a huge winter coat that swallowed her frame.

Ellen smiled and offered Sam her hand which he shook quickly. His eyes were still watery red. “I knew your daddy from way back when,” she said, her voice tinged with sadness, “How’s he been? Ain’t heard from him in a long time.”

Castiel watched Sam’s face carefully. He wondered how different Sam’s version of the story would be, from what he’d told Castiel all those months ago. Dean smiled politely, answering for him, “He’s been crazy busy, couldn’t make it,” he lied evenly. Sam frowned, as did Ellen, who quickly turned to Castiel.

“And you must be Castiel.”

Missouri smiled, warm and wide, “Sure is, newest member of our family.”

Castiel rolled his eyes but offered his hand, which Ellen shook tightly, her hand was strong, close-cropped fingernails painted black, “It’s nice to meet you, ma’am.” She seemed like the kind of woman Castiel always imagined his mom could have been: strong-willed, level-headed, brash and uncompromising when she had to be.

“Geez, I really look that old?” Ellen snorted.

Dean folded Jo into a tight hug. Castiel’s features almost twisted into a sneer before he straightened them out with a curt nod.  _ Get a grip _ he scolded himself.

Gifts were placed under the glowing tree, wrapped prettily in actual wrapping paper. A stab of guilt wrenched at his gut; he hadn’t gotten anything for anyone .  The brothers’ smiles were big, bright enough to fool most, but never quite reached their eyes. Castiel ached for them. They had been so excited. The Winchesters laid out the food on the dining table which they had decorated with fake foliage they’d dug out from the attic. They sat down to the table, everyone complimenting the spread, however messy it looked. Castiel was still struggling with the fact he’d been trusted with something so important.

“Looks good, boys,” said Ellen with a warm smile, cradling a whiskey between her fingers.

“Be honest,” Bobby chimed in, seemingly a little cheerier than usual. His hat was off, and his hair was combed. He was halfway-handsome, Castiel mused. Bobby’s eyes, toeing the line between blue and green shone without the shadow of his hat. It looked like he might have even trimmed his beard, “how much of this did Missouri do?”

“None,” Sam preened, eyes already greedily eyeing up the roast potatoes. Castiel reached out to drag them a little closer to himself, earning him an earnest glare. Castiel smirked, a silent challenge, which Sam answered in kind.

“So, turkey’s off the menu,” Jo chuckled, looked at Dean from beneath her eyelashes. Castiel told himself he didn’t care when Dean blushed.

“Lay off, squirt,” Dean smiled. Castiel told the souring in his stomach very firmly to  _ fuck off. _

Dinner probably wasn’t the most delicious thing by most people’s standards but it sure tasted better than soggy, microwaved hot pockets and root beer. Castiel held each morsel on his tongue and tried to keep his pleased humming to himself.

They gathered in the lounge hours later, bellies full and cheeks rosy from the electric fireplace, glowing bright between the couches. Sam sat cross-legged on the floor handing around the gifts with a grin, a little more genuine now than a few hours before. Castiel’s eyes widened as Sam passed him a gift: a squishy package wrapped in paper with little reindeer on it. Looking around, Sam and Dean had similar shaped gifts, wrapped in the same garish paper. It had Missouri written all over it. He couldn’t keep the fond smile from tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Bobby,” Sam said, handing him a little box, “this one’s for you. From me.”

“Oh,” Bobby replied, confusion pulling at his expression, “thanks, son. You didn’t have to do that.”

Sam shrugged, “I know.”

Castiel looked down at the gift in his lap, trailing his fingers over the paper with a strange feeling fizzing in his chest. It expanded, filled him from the inside, made him glow.  

“Alright, everyone go,” Missouri grinned, tearing into her own presents. Castiel looked to Dean, tongue poking out between his lips as he ripped into his gift like a child. It was endearing and Castiel hated himself for thinking it. Castiel peeled back his paper ever so carefully, not wanting to rip it. He couldn’t be quite sure why; something in him just wanted to savour the moment, the feeling.

Dean guffawed, delighted, pulling out his gift from the mess of paper that fell with a rustle to his feet. Castiel looked down to his own gift, pulling out a set of very soft fleece pajamas. Dean was holding a similar set, and when Castiel looked to Sam, he saw his own horrified face mirrored back at him.

Missouri had done it. Matching pajamas.

“Don’t you just love ‘em?” Missouri cackled, slapping her knee. Castiel considered the fleece in his hands; blue for him, with little gingerbread men on them. Dean’s were a forest green, and Sam’s a deep shade of maroon. Castiel couldn’t help but laugh. He laughed until the room silenced around him.

Dean started laughing again, “Dude, you never laugh.”

Castiel rolled his eyes, “I laugh all the time.”

Dean’s smile turned warm, “Thank you, Missouri, these are awesome.”

“Yeah,” Sam grinned, getting up and gathering his pajamas in his arms, “I’m putting them on right now.”

Missouri opened her gift from Bobby; a collection of heavy-looking, well-thumbed recipe books.  “Bobby, oh, this is wonderful, thank you.”

Bobby reddened, “I… I’ve been lookin’ through Karen’s… thought they might be of some use.”

“They will,” Missouri sighed, pulled him in for a hug, “thank you.”

Sam came back, with a grin, to a room full of cheers. Ellen unwrapped a pair of beautiful leather gloves, looking at Bobby with a strange smile on her face.  “Bobby-” He waved her off and Ellen traced her hands over the material, which hissed gently beneath the pads of her fingers, “They’re beautiful.”

For Jo it was a new knife that Bobby said he’d carved the handle of himself. She handled it reverently, before jabbing it, still in its intricate leather casing towards Dean with a savage smile. “Careful where you stick that,” Dean chuckled.

Bobby turned his box from Sam gently in his hands, opening it carefully. Sam watched, biting at his bottom lip. Inside was a tiny plastic pot with a bright green shoot poking its arms out from the soil. Bobby went very quiet at that. He held it so gently in his worn hands, Castiel could see the slightest tremor in them. “It’s the first shoot,” Sam smiled, “from the seeds I found.”

“The first?” Bobby smiled, lips quivering just a little. Ellen leaned a little closer, placing a hand on Bobby’s plaid-covered forearm. Castiel might have imagined it, but he thought he could see Bobby lean in to her touch, just a little.

Castiel looked to the Winchesters, eyes trained on the very same scene. Dean’s eyes flickered towards him, no more than a fraction of a second, and fire licked, quick as a flash, across the skin of Castiel’s arms.

Sam had one more gift lying at his feet, which he opened under the attention of everyone in the room. When the present fell open he gasped. “Bobby, are these-”

Bobby smiled, a strange expression, but one Castiel found he really liked on the old man’s face, “Karen’s old gardening file. Thought it might help us out, and since you’re the bookworm…”  Sam leapt up from the floor and flew into Bobby’s arms, only just being caught with a small chuckle.

“Thank you,” Sam cried, “thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Bobby patted awkwardly at Sam’s back, “Nothin’ to it, kid,” before looking to Dean and Castiel, “You two idjits got one more gift from me too, but s’out in the garden so…”

Dean sat up straighter, “What did you do?”

“How’s it gonna be a surprise if I tell ya?” Bobby said, his eyebrow raised quizzically.

They piled themselves snug with coats and scarves, Sam still in his new pajamas, and followed Bobby to the end of the street. Castiel’s heart beat a little faster, somehow knowing what Bobby’s surprise would be, but eagerly anticipating it all the same. Ellen, Jo and Missouri gasped at the sight of the cleared-out allotment, and Missouri grabbed at Castiel’s arm with a full-bodied laugh.

“Would you just look at that,” she sighed.

Dean held the tear open as their guests ducked through. Once they were all spread in the middle of the vast plot, Bobby pointed over to the far corner where, just as Castiel had suspected, a small shed sat patiently.

“Merry Christmas, boys,” Bobby smiled, walking them over to it and opening the door, the smell of fresh wood intoxicating. Inside where several huge bags of soil one atop another, the wooden walls sported a collection of tools, some with worn handles, others looked newly-purchased. Hoes and spades and long-handled forks leaned against the back wall.

“Bobby,” Dean breathed, “You did this?”

Bobby grumbled, huffing slightly in obvious embarrassment. Castiel felt a swirl of affection as he leant against the doorframe. “This is awesome, Bobby,” he said, “thank you.” Sam wrapped his arms around Bobby’s middle, holding on tight.

“Cas,” Bobby said, looking over Sam’s head, “I got some extra wood lyin’ around, you wanna help me make some new planters?”

Castiel grinned, a blooming in his chest bright and warm, “Of course.”

Bobby turned back, looking out over the allotment, a private smile gracing his features. Ellen and Jo turned with him, holding onto each other.

“We’ll make her beautiful again,” Bobby said quietly.

It was well past midnight by the time the house emptied with fond goodbyes, gloved hands cradling gifts. Dean flopped onto the couch beside Castiel after carrying his groggy little brother up the stairs to bed. Castiel took the chance to study him while Dean’s eyes were closed, the glow of the Christmas lights dancing over his nose. Looking at Dean never grew old, it seemed. There was a sadness on Dean’s face now that he was no longer in so much company. “You okay?” Castiel asked, watching Dean’s eyes flutter open. Dean’s chest filled with a deep sigh .

“Just thought he’d be here today.”

Castiel nodded, swallowing against the tightness in his throat.

“Just… it’s Christmas,” Dean shrugged, “Like, I get it, you know, It’s a hard time for all of us. Mom loved Christmas. But he said he’d be here.” Castiel continued his silence, let Dean talk, gave him the space he clearly needed, even though his fingers itched to reach out and soothe. “He didn’t even call me,” Dean huffed humorlessly, throwing his cellphone down on the sofa beside him.

“I didn’t get a call from my mom, either,” Castiel added uselessly.

Dean’s mouth twisted into a sad smile, “No?”

Castiel shook his head, “I’ve been too scared to try and call her.”

“You shouldn’t have to. _ We _ shouldn’t have to,” Dean said, leaning forwards, “they’re parents. They have to care.”

Castiel indulged himself and reached out to place his hand on Dean’s shoulder. Castiel felt muscles tense beneath his palm, but Dean didn’t move away. “Your dad cares about you,” Castiel said quietly. He had no idea, really, but he had to believe that destructive parents like Castiel’s mom, Dean’s dad… they cared, but were just hurting. Castiel had been too young to remember the fall-out after Michael’s death, but Gabriel sure did, and he had always nursed that hurt close. Told Castiel Valerie had never been the same. From what Sam had told him about John Winchester, Castiel could only assume grief had stolen him, too.

Dean looked to him, a small smile gracing his lips. They stared at each other for a long time. Castiel was content to watch the blinking lights swim in Dean’s eyes. Dean broke the spell with a nod, “Sure, has a funny way of showin’ it,” he mumbled.

Castiel chuckled, unable to help himself. All this time, he and Dean had been butting heads, lashing out at one another. In reality, each of them was as fucked as the other. It was amusing in the sort of way that if you didn’t laugh, you were sure to cry about it. Dean’s eyes lit in the darkness of the room, and his laughter bubbled to the surface, warm and smooth like whiskey and chocolate.

New Year’s Eve snuck up on them, as it always did in that strange stretch of days between celebrations, and might have gone unnoticed, if not for a call from John, saying he wouldn’t be joining them. Missouri had been quietly livid in the passing days, and the boys tried to stay out from under her feet.

They snuck away to the garden as much as they could in the days before school started. Sam had stayed inside with Bobby, complaining that it was too cold to be outside. But Castiel was desperate to do something with his hands, do anything but languish in the post-Christmas coma-state. He’d spent the last few days building new planter boxes and trellises to prop up either side the new gate once it was fixed, following Bobby’s instructions at first until he was able to do it himself. They were mismatched and organic: made from any wood that Bobby had lying around. And they were far too big for Castiel to be able to carry up the stairs by himself.

Castiel found Dean in the garage, leaning over the engine of Bobby’s car and covered in grease. “Mind giving me a hand?” Castiel asked. Dean smiled, wiping his hands thoroughly.

They heaved the large, square boxes and woven wooden trellises, one at a time up the narrow staircase to place them outside, shivering violently before dragging on their winter layers to keep out the chill. Castiel was bundled up tight in a scarf and gloves that Missouri had dug out from her vast collection. They smelled of her: herbs and spices and her flowery perfume. The wind was bitter and whipped at his face until it shone red and ached, but he and Dean struggled on, carrying the planters through the gate, from Bobby’s backyard, that had finally been fixed.

“These look good, Cas,” Dean appraised once they had set them down onto the frozen ground, in a group right in the middle of the garden. Castiel felt his cheeks heat despite the chill in the air. He hoped the wind had reddened them enough to hide the blush. Together, they dragged the huge bags of soil from the new shed and searched for small rocks to line the drainage holes. It was a comfortable quiet in which they worked, filling the boxes and spreading the soil to fill the corners snug. Dean was smiling, Castiel couldn’t help but notice, a gentle smile that reached his eyes and made them shine.

God, Dean was beautiful.

The clouds overhead began to darken, and everything stilled around them as the first snowflake fell, landing on top of the soil between them. Dean grinned, childish glee filling his entire body as he stood to open his mouth to the sky. Castiel chuckled to himself, giving Dean a playful push, “We need something to cover these boxes with, quick.”

Dean’s eyes followed Castiel’s hands as they left his body, licking his lips, “I think Bobby has some tarp.”

The snow fell quickly around them, sticking in their hair and clinging to their eyelashes, as they ran back to Bobby’s garage, digging up heaps of tarp and hefting them back through the gate. “Fuck, it’s cold,” Castiel huffed as he dropped the tarps to hug himself tightly.

Dean laughed, “Get a shimmy on, then.”

They tucked each corner underneath the legs of the planters to try and keep the damp out as much as possible. Castiel’s fingers, even wrapped in gloves, turned useless with the cold. The snow, falling fast, had turned everything above the ground into a blank white page and it settled easily on the branches hanging above them, gathered in the gaps in the chain-link fence. The blackbird was back, chirruping and ruffling its feathers, hopping across the ground as it watched them, head tilted curiously. Dean was moving closer, laughing breathlessly and pulling the tarp as he went. They met at the edge, crouched close, both standing to try and avoid the closeness, but it only pressed them closer.

“Fuck, feel my hands,” Dean huffed, pressing his bright red hands into the warm embrace of Castiel’s gloves. The cold seeped in from Dean’s fingers and Castiel began to rub at them instinctively. Dean swallowed audibly in the tiny space between them.

“You should have brought gloves, you idiot,” Castiel mumbled, raising Dean’s hands to his mouth to breathe heat into them. Castiel’s heart began to pound, struck dumb by Dean’s eyes, so close he could see little snowflakes clinging to his lashes, his eyes shining and bright. The smile began to fall from Dean’s face as he reached tentatively towards Castiel, a single frozen finger brushing against the frozen skin of Castiel’s cheek.

Castiel’s body moved on instinct, sprung forwards to catch Dean’s lips with his own. He felt Dean move with him, kissing him back, uncertain, his surprise obvious. In that moment, it felt like the most natural thing in the world, to be kissing Dean this way. At the first touch of his hands to Dean’s cheeks, Dean jerked away, his breath heaving, heart pounding; Castiel could see Dean’s pulse hurtling against his throat. His face was a mixture of confusion and hurt. Castiel’s heart sank.

“Dean?” Castiel said, his voice quiet, suddenly feeling so, so stupid. Dean shook his head, touching a hand to his lips, his eyes brimming with tears. Dean turned away and Castiel’s heart sank.  _ No, no, no. _

“Dean, wait-”

Dean ran, ran until his lungs burned in his chest from the icy wind he gulped down. What the fuck was that? Castiel kissed him? Dean had kissed him back. He’d kissed him  _ back _ ? He touched his lips and closed his eyes, feeling tears as they began to brim. He’d never been kissed like that before, so gently, so suddenly. He’d never been kissed by a  _ boy _ before. He’d tried so long to ignore those telltale signs: the shivers, the electrified awareness . But, Castiel was magnetic. Dean couldn’t quite explain to himself why he had held Castiel’s hands… his were cold, they needed warming up. Any excuse fell flat in front of the truth. Dean had wanted to hold his hands. Had wanted-

Dean’s heart was still pounding, his skin still tingling, and he rubbed at his eyes with his frigid hands, trying to scrub out the feeling. He didn’t like boys. He didn’t like Cas. He _ couldn’t _ .

He wanted his dad. He wanted him so badly.

Dean collapsed on the curb of a sidewalk he didn’t recognise. He’d run so blindly, he wasn’t entirely sure where he was. He fished around in his pocket with stiff, shaking fingers, and retrieved his phone. He shut his eyes tight as he pressed call. Dean listened to the relentless ringing, on and on it called, until his heart clenched with it.

“You’ve reached John Winchester, leave a message,” his father intoned. Dean closed his eyes against the tears that brimmed along the edge of them.

“Hey, Dad. It’s… it’s me,” he said, hating the tremor in his voice. Dean buried his free hand deep into his pocket and clenched his fist tight. He watched as the leaves of a nearby tree rustled in the wind, the same wind that wound its fingers in beneath his layers to press its frozen palms against his skin. Snow fell all around him, landing in his hair, on his shoulders, the toes of his shoes. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was calling to say. There were so many things: _ I miss you, I’m afraid, I just kissed a boy.   _

“Where were you?” he ground, fingernails sinking painfully into the meat of his palm. “It was Christmas and you… you never showed. Why-” he pinched the bridge of his nose, willing those brimming tears not to break over his cheeks. He swallowed with a click. “How could you not show? How could you do that to us? To Sammy? We need you. I need you.”  He squeezed his fist tighter still ,  “You need to come back, dad. You come back and  _ be  _ a fucking  _ dad _ .”  The tears he held back so valiantly, finally broke free as he hung up, squeezing past eyes screwed-shut and falling in fat drops against his coat. Dean wrapped his arms around himself to keep out the chill.

Castiel’s brain whirled violently; feeling phantom bruises from Marv, physical and emotional, throb anew. How could he have done that? Dean’s eyes… so like Alfie’s. God, he was such an idiot. An unlovable fool. Castiel left the garden on unsteady, shaking legs, stumbled through the snow back to Missouri’s house. His throat burned, shame tingeing every thought.

How could he do that to Dean? When he hadn’t been sure, when he hadn’t even known if that’s what Dean had wanted? How could he be so selfish, so reckless? He’d be lucky if Dean ever spoke to him again. He’d ruined it, ruined everything. The way Dean had reached for his hands though, the heavy weight of them against his own...

He stepped through the door to find Missouri, standing wide-eyed just on the other side.

“I was just comin’ to… are you okay?”

Castiel’s breath was shallow, his eyes felt dead. He felt desperately alone. He had no idea how much he’d relied on Dean’s company to make him feel like he belonged until he was faced with the sudden absence of it. He ran an unconscious finger over his lips, which still tingled, still tasted like Dean’s spearmint gum. He wiped his hand against his soggy jeans and nodded, “Yeah, fine.”  

Missouri frowned but said nothing more about it. “I was comin’ to find you,” she continued, “Gabriel’s got his date.”  Castiel’s brain was mercifully stilled. He wrapped his arms tight around Missouri, feeling her tense before she gathered him in her arms. He breathed in her scent, clung with all his might.


	18. Poppy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Tracks for Chapter:   
> No Sound But The Wind - Editors  
> Rogers Park - Clem Leek  
> Field - Keaton Henson  
> A Seat At The Table - J. Tillman

It was a day like any other, until it wasn’t. Half of Dean was in the classroom, listening to his teacher whittle on about things he, Charlie and Cas had already covered, in detail, during their study sessions. The other half of him was in the garden, summer sunshine dappling the wildflowers that spread about his feet. And Cas. He was there, too, pressing in close with a ferocious desire that made Dean blush where he sat beside the window. The grass was tall and thick, bees buzzed lazily overhead, dipping in and out of royal purple foxgloves, dancing atop towering sunflowers. And there was Cas, looming above him like the sun, lowering to shower gentle caresses onto Dean’s cheeks, his neck. Dean held him close, like he’d never allow himself to do, like any second, Cas would vanish.

“Dean,” Castiel breathed, nuzzling against his neck, “Dean.”

“Dean!” He snapped back into reality with a sickening jerk. A whole classroom of eyes was fixed upon him and he felt himself shrink a little. He rubbed at the ache in his heart absentmindedly, the chill of the classroom an unwelcome shock; he could’ve sworn he felt sunshine on his cheeks. “Could you come with me please?” Donna, Jody’s secretary, asked from her perch in the doorway. He couldn’t think why Jody would want to see him. He racked his brain for any wrong-doing over the past few months. He came up blank.

“Uh, sure,” Dean said, flustered, as he began gathering his belongings which spilled out from the cradle of his arms as he left the heavy silence that had descended upon the room. He began to stuff his books and things into his backpack on the way to Principal Mills’s office, but when he saw Missouri and two police officers, grave faces amongst them all, everything dropped to the cracked linoleum floor with a clatter.

Next he knew, Dean was bundled into the back of Missouri’s car, Sam sat beside him with eyes wide and afraid. Dean held his brother close and spoke quietly to him, though he wasn’t entirely sure of what he was saying. It was as if the world was put on mute, Dean was no longer in his own body, couldn’t use it properly, couldn’t feel or smell or hear. The hospital corridor stretched and warped before him, so much that it made him dizzy and nauseated. His heart hammered against his ribs, and he couldn’t be sure if he was truly breathing or blinking or swallowing. All those things that came so naturally to him, things that his body needed to survive, fell away.

All he knew was the thrum of his fear.

Dean trained his eyes upon the door, just down the hall to his left, and in that very moment, it swung open, an austere looking man, lab coat flapping around his calves walked towards them. Dean prayed for the first time in his life. Missouri sat very still and quiet, her hand clammy where she held onto his. Sam sat on the other side of her, his head resting against her shoulder, hiccupping every so often on the endless stream of tears that poured down his neck and into the collar of his t-shirt. The doctor face was at once dejected, apologetic, and it was all Dean needed to shatter. Missouri’s hand crushed his so tightly that the bones ground together. He collapsed into her, finding Sam and holding him close enough to bruise. Dean cursed everything he could name through the tears that scorched his cheeks.

“We did all we could, I’m so sorry.”

Inside, Dean howled like a wounded animal. All he wanted in that moment was his dad to hold his shoulder tightly and tell him everything was going to be okay. But his dad was the other side of that door. And he was dead.

Castiel came home to a house blanketed in utter silence. Nobody was home. Castiel tried to ignore the tingling feeling of anxiety, the fingers of paranoia sliding themselves into his hair to leave goosebumps along his scalp. They most certainly weren’t kidnapped or dead in a ditch. Maybe they’d gone grocery shopping or taken Sam to the park. He didn’t spare a moment to consider why he cared, just that he did, deeply.

Castiel took a deep breath and sent a message to Missouri, telling her he was home and asking when they would be back. He puffed up a little with pride, having talked himself out of a panic like an adult, and headed into the kitchen with vague plans of cooking some dinner for when they arrived home. His phone buzzed and Castiel looked at the screen, relieved to have a reply. To his dismay, it wasn’t Missouri’s name on the screen.

_ Walking home alone today? I wonder where Dean is. Watch yourself, won’t you, Castiel? _

The tell-tale signs of fear crawled across his skin and he shook himself, turned instead to the kitchen. He only really knew how to make SpaghettiOs and toast, and even then, more times than not it ended in the smoke detectors screaming bloody murder. It was a miracle Christmas dinner was edible. But, he figured it’d be nice to have dinner ready when Missouri got home. He still felt it prudent to work off the disrespect he’d shown her when he’d first arrived, even though she’d made abundantly clear that he was forgiven. He hadn’t forgiven himself.

He combed through the cupboards, trying to think back to the meals Missouri cooked up for them. Hearty meals, usually meaty and warming. He didn’t trust himself with meat, so he turned instead to the safety of pasta. Except, the stuff Missouri kept was dry and brittle, and Castiel had only ever eaten pasta microwaved or already cooked in macaroni salad. He picked a packet, the little pieces shaped like bow ties which he liked and read the small-print carefully.

“Boil… 10 minutes for al dente,” he murmured, completely flummoxed by the phrase  _ al dente _ . It sounded posh, so he assumed it was a good thing. He considered the packet, weighing up how much to cook. He decided bowls would be an appropriate measurement and filled one to the brim four times over, before emptying the whole packet with a shrug into a large pan, water set to boil.

“Pasta’s all well and good,” he said to himself, “but what are we going to put on it?” He searched through the cupboards, landing on a jar of alfredo sauce with a triumphant grin. His phone chimed happily in his pocket and he hurried to fish it out. Missouri’s message was short.

_ On way home, speak to you when we get back _ .

Castiel frowned, stirring the pasta lazily as he read and reread her message. There weren’t the usual two dozen hugs and kisses to her sign-off, no smiley faces or unnecessary amount of exclamation points. Had he done something wrong? He tried to think. He made his bed every morning these days, as per the rule, and he’d done the dishes hadn’t he? He cast a quick glance to the sink and sighed with relief. His classes, as far as he’d been aware, had been running smooth, too. He barely even raised a hand to answer for fear of being accused of disruption. He was mostly caught-up thanks to Charlie… what could it be?

His heart lurched. What if she’d heard from his mom? Or about Gabriel’s trial? He shook those thoughts from his mind. She would have called, or come to the school, if it were something to do with that. And Dean and Sam would be here if that were the case. He was just plating up, mind finally stilling as the door opened and sank closed. The house seemed unchanged considering three typically loud and gregarious characters had just crossed its threshold. Castiel felt the need to call out, “I’m in the kitchen, and don’t worry, Missouri,” as he gathered two plates in his hands before spinning to set them at the dining table, “dinner’s all set.”

Missouri stood in the doorway with a sad smile, tear tracks carved into the skin of her solemn face. Castiel heard two sets of feet on the stairs as he stared at her. “Oh, Cas, honey,” she breathed, “you might want to sit down.”

Her next words gutted him like a fish. He’d have dropped the plates if he hadn’t already set them down.

“I can’t believe it,” he whispered, “it’s not…” Missouri nodded, folding a warm hand over his forearm. “I’m sure I’m the last person he wants to see right now, but… Dean… is he?”

Missouri nodded, “Heartbroken. Give him and Sam some time. Dean loved John, worshipped him even.” Missouri stared at him in that knowing way she had. He felt her eyes against his heart almost, which fluttered under her sight and she gave his arm a squeeze.

“I noticed you boys ain’t spoken in some time. Just give him space,” she smiled soft as her eyes welled up once again, tapping fondly at his chin with her knuckle, “he’ll come back when he’s ready, when the dust settles.” Castiel frowned, but then again, he should really stop being surprised when she always said exactly what needed to be heard. She understood implicitly, without him saying a word. He was grateful to her in that moment. He surprised them both as he leant across to embrace her. She shook softly with her tears, held him tightly against her as she wept.

Castiel dreamt again that night. He was in the room he’d shared with Gabriel, getting ready for bed. Pajamas, bright red with little fire trucks on them that Gabriel had grown out of, warmed his limbs as he pulled them on.

Castiel remembered this night.

The comforting light from his lamp flickered out, and he was plunged into darkness. Not even his night light lit the way. He screamed. He didn’t cry, because Castiel hadn’t cried for a whole year, and he wasn’t about to start now. But he was deathly afraid. The shapes of his room, usually friendly, well-known objects to him, morphed and shifted in his periphery, grew fangs and eyes that glowed and burned ferocious.

He was shaking in the corner when Valerie burst through the door with a flashlight. She gathered him close. She smelled of the cigarettes she’d started smoking again. She smoothed his hair from his forehead, over and over like she always did when he was upset..

“It’s okay, baby,” she whispered, “mama’s got you.”

She lifted him, despite her small frame and the fact he was growing heavier and taller by the week, carried him down the stairs on her hip like he was a baby again. He clung to her, burying his face in her dark hair. It smelled of coconut. They rifled through the drawers and found the candles and spare flashlights. The warmth from the candles soon spread, the room flickering in the friendly light. They gathered close together beneath a blanket in his father’s chair, and Valerie read him his favourite book, The Rainbow Fish. He liked the sparkling scales, which sparkled all the prettier in the candle light. She read it to him, over and over until he fell asleep in her arms.

It was late, the whole house lying quiet and dark, when Castiel was woken by a feeling of being watched. He shifted, chest aching from his dream, switched on the lamp and gasped at the shape of a body in the doorway. Dean was breathing unevenly, as he moved directly into the room, straight towards Castiel. Castiel sat up just as Dean’s body lowered, just as Dean’s arms enveloped him. Castiel held on tight, unsure of what else to do. He couldn’t understand this pain, couldn’t fathom it.

His dream rose like smoke on the air and Castiel held Dean just a little tighter. He imagined losing his mom. It hurt more than he thought it might. She was still his mom, whether he’d written her off or no.

Dean’s breath was warm against his neck, there was wetness on Castiel’s shoulder, soaking through his shirt, though Dean’s body gave no evidence of his tears. His breathing was deep, if a little disjointed, and his shoulders were steady. Dean’s grief seeped from him whether he willed it or not. Castiel gathered closer still. They sat like that for a long time, in the dark, neither speaking nor moving. Castiel felt his body begin to relax into that half-waking state just before one drops into a deep sleep, and his mouth relaxed around the words he should have said a week ago.

“I’m so sorry,” Castiel whispered into the dark.

The day of the funeral was tinted grey. The sky with its rolling grey clouds seemed grey beneath. The faces of those around him were grey and tired. Dean stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. His face was grey. He straightened his tie and sighed heavily at himself. He hadn’t slept in the past few days, his grief sat heavy as a boulder on his chest, pinned him helpless like a butterfly for display. Sam was waiting for him with a hesitant smile and a suit too broad in the shoulders, and a little short on his arms. Dean tried to brighten himself. “You ready?” He said, his voice ringing with a dissonant clang.

Sam frowned, “To bury dad? No.”

Cas was at the bottom of the stairs with another of those halting smiles on his face. Dean figured he should get used to that expression today, the kind of smile where people try to be kind, while holding back their own agony.

Cas didn’t say anything when Dean reached him at the bottom of the stairs but handed him a coat. His fingers lingered against Dean’s for the briefest of moments, but that could have easily been his imagination. They still hadn’t spoken more than a few words to one another since the garden.

He still felt Cas's lips against his own whenever he closed his eyes, could smell the soap on Cas's skin and it made him feel light as air, which made no fucking sense. Right now, it was the only thought that talked him, consistently, from the brink. Dean wasn’t going to question it.

Grief followed him like a fly, insistent. It was uncomfortable, covered him and his senses in a thick layer of cotton. Everything was muted, touch almost didn’t feel real, his eyes never really seemed to focus on anything. He was there, but he also felt very far away. It was a perplexing state to find himself in, greeting people who came to the door with sad eyes and sympathetic words. Everyone handled him like he would break any second, and honestly, he was grateful in a way. He felt fragile.

Missouri stood in squat, little heels, with a large flying-saucer hat set at an angle on her head. Her hands were covered in gloves. “Ready, sugar?” She asked, her voice very quiet, like someone speaking to a child who had only just stopped screaming. He gave her a steady nod, and she reached for him, wrapping her arm in his. Cas and Sam followed close behind. It cheered Dean momentarily to see Cas's arm slung around Sam’s shoulders.

A sea of faces swam to greet him as they stepped out into the churchyard. Like a song whose name you couldn’t quite chase, their names and relevance lay just beyond his reach. Dean glanced to Cas, who stood a little way off, with his hands in his pockets. He stood staring up at the leaves of a large oak tree as they waved in the January wind. Since all this happened, what had happened between them… Dean no longer had the energy to panic about it. To hate Cas for it.

He just felt numb.

The graveyard was silent, aside from the pastor, reading passages from the Bible, a book John had never read. Missouri never let go of Dean’s hand and the journey of her thumb against his knuckles kept him rooted in that moment, kept him from running. Sam stood close, too, wiping his nose on his sleeve, chin shaking from the tears he tried to keep inside. Missouri had asked Dean a few days ago if he wanted to do a reading. In that moment, Dean was glad he had declined. He hadn’t dared speak since they gathered around that deep dark hole in the ground; his silenced voice shaking in his throat, each breath was uneven and painful to draw. He felt surrounded in a thick fog; he could hear the voices of guests and their readings, he could feel his legs help him to stand as he saw his father’s coffin lowered into the dark. But he wasn’t there. He, that was, Dean himself, huddled somewhere far away. His body left to function on autopilot.

His blood roared in his ears as Missouri pulled him to the edge of the pit, the varnished wood of his father’s final resting place mirroring the billowing clouds above. He saw Missouri take a handful of dirt, Sam too, hiccupping on his tears, now falling freely down his cheeks. The dirt was a damp lump in the palm of his hand, working itself quickly beneath his nails. “I’ll look after them, hon,” he heard Missouri say, her voice shaking and thick with tears, “I promise. We love you.”

“Bye, dad,” Sam whispered, choked by his grief. He clung to Missouri and wept into her arm as she held him tight.

Dean stepped right up to the edge. He knew then, with a sickening swoop of his stomach, with a sudden cruel certainty, that this was his fault. If he’d not left that voicemail, asking his dad to come back, if he hadn’t been crying over _ nothing, _ he wouldn’t now be throwing his fistful of soil onto his father’s coffin. He couldn’t say anything for fear of screaming.

The day when Dean finally emerged from his bedroom, it had possibly been a week since he watched his father lowered six feet under. It was hard to tell. Time sort of scrunched together; staring at the wall didn’t give him a very good indication of what time of day it was. He kept the black-out curtains drawn. He slept when he was tired, but when he slept all he dreamt of were dark holes and falling dirt and he’d wake up feeling like he hadn’t slept at all. He ate when Missouri or Sam brought him food. But everything tasted like soot on his tongue, and his stomach roiled with nausea. Cas hadn’t come to see him.

As he stared at the wall, his mind traced those moments; that voicemail, the desperation in his voice. He wondered what his dad thought as he heard that. Had he come racing? Was he drunk? Was he blind with panic or guilt?

Cas and Charlie had taken Sam to the coffee shop to get him out of the house and work on some studying, and Missouri was at work. It was all but silent in the house, save for the sound of Dean’s breathing, shallow and barely-there.

There was a knock at the front door. Dean couldn’t be sure he hadn’t imagined it, but it sounded again, stronger and more insistent. He sighed, flinching as moving released his unwashed scent, a sickening wave of nauseating aroma. He made his way down the stairs all the same, his legs shaking at the lack of use. Bobby stood at the door, his same grim expression carved into his sunken features.  “Dean,” he greeted, “how’re you-” his nose scrunched, “that smell you?”

Dean lifted an arm and flinched, “Yes.”

“You look like shit,” Bobby said, pushing into the house, “Go take a shower, you’ll feel better-”

“Bobby, I-”

“Now, ya idjit. I’m makin’ you some breakfast.”

“I already-”

“Bacon?” Bobby interjected as he shrugged out of his heavy coat.

Dean sighed, “Yes, please.”

Dean stared at his reflection in the mirror while the water warmed. His eyes were permanently half-closed, rimmed with dark circles, his mouth dragging down steeply at the corners, shaking if he tried to lift it into a smile. His freckles were usually so bright against his skin, but even they had turned a sickly grey and faded into the off-white hue of his face. His cheeks looked a little hollower. His body hurt.

He stripped and stepped over the lip of the bath to stand beneath the warmth of the spray. It patted his hair down tight against his forehead, permanently sore from the headache that had plagued him since the day of the accident. It soothed its fingers down his back, massaged his aching shoulders and his tender legs. Dean washed himself slowly, his body sluggish, his brain in a fog. The tears came back; they always came back. They mixed salty with the water that tracked down his cheeks. They slipped right out, no warning, no hitch in his breath. Like his body was cleansing, purging itself. He let them fall.

He walked back to his room, naked as the day he was born, and found his first set of clean clothes in a week. The clean cloth against his skin felt better than he ever remembered it feeling, soft sweatpants and thick socks, a worn Led Zeppelin t-shirt. He opened the curtains and flinched at the winter sunlight. Though pale, it was the brightest thing he’d seen in days.

The smell of bacon drew him downstairs, and his stomach growled in anticipation.

Bobby pushed a plate towards him, four slices of buttered bread, a huge mountain of perfectly sizzled bacon. Dean wolfed it, all of it, until it hurt to swallow. His body sagged in relief after he’d chugged five large glasses of water, and an orange juice. His vision cleared. He could focus on things around him again, and he looked to Bobby, who fixed him with a level stare. “Better?” Bobby asked, clearing Dean’s plate and glass.

“Yeah,” Dean said around a burp, “thanks.”

“Good,” Bobby smiled, “now get your shoes on, I got somethin’ you need to see.”

Dean’s legs felt a little lighter as he walked with Bobby back down the street, all the way to the end to where Bobby’s front lawn lay, a little neater than usual. Bobby smiled, “Did a little tidyin’ out here.” Dean surveyed the cropped grass and the small pile of weeds that lay, freshly plucked, by the house.

He followed Bobby inside, through the hall and into the garage. He didn’t recognise her at first, covered by a dusty sheet, but something twinged all the same; there was a change in the air, stilled like a baited breath. Dean held his, letting it out with a cry as Bobby removed the sheet.

There she was. The Impala.

The left side, the driver’s side, was completely caved-in, the car almost folded in half. Dean screwed his eyes shut, trying to will it away, but when he opened his eyes, it hadn’t disappeared. He fell to his knees, gripping tightly to the crushed, crumpled metal of the driver’s door. His father had sat right there. Sorrow had stolen Dean’s voice. His mouth was open, and he was screaming but no sound appeared. Huge, heaving sobs wracked his body, tore his throat to shreds, squeezed his heart in an unbearable clench.

He stood, his whole body shaking, and he threw his body against the crushed shell of the car. Again, and again he tore at it, beating it with his fists and kicking at it with his feet. It hadn’t saved his dad. It hadn’t been enough.

Bobby’s hands were strong as they wrapped around his arms and held him tightly. Dean couldn’t hear what he was saying; a high-pitched note, like his hearing was shot, rang loud in his ears. But still Bobby held on, through Dean’s thrashing and screaming, through the sobs that punished his entire body. As his hearing refocused, he heard Bobby’s voice, breaking like he was crying, too.

“I’m sorry, son. I’m so sorry.”

Over and over, Bobby repeated this, like a mantra and it stilled Dean’s raging body enough for Bobby to turn him around and crush Dean to his chest.

Bobby talked him back from the brink, gave him a finger of whiskey in a glass. They sat together, slumped against the garage door and sipping slowly. The whiskey burned Dean’s everything, but after the initial assault on his senses, he was blanketed in warmth, from the very pit of his stomach. “Don’t tell Missouri I’m drinkin’ this,” Bobby grumbled, taking another swig. Dean huffed gently, resting his head back against the door. “Your daddy,” Bobby said, his voice cracking from disuse, “he loved you boys so much.”

Dean shook his head. He’d been told that so many times, and it never stopped hurting. He’d gone so long not believing it. He wondered how much that belief affected their relationship. If he’d just been a little more understanding… if he’d given his dad some time…

It didn’t matter now. None of that would bring John back.

“Why’s the car here?” he asked.

Bobby sighed heavily, rubbing his hand over the top of his hat, “I… it’s a piece of him. I thought you’d want it. He’s probably left it to you.” Dean searched Bobby’s face, the deepening lines around his mouth, eyes and forehead, the whiskers that peppered his chin and cheeks, greying at the ends. He nodded.

“We could fix it up together, what d’ya say?”

Dean stared at the busted car, the only constant in his life. No matter where they moved, they always moved in that car. Some of his best memories belonged to that back bench, with its black leather upholstery. He and Sam used to pretend they were on a rollercoaster, holding their arms way above their heads as they crested large hills to plummet faster and faster back down. Sometimes they’d sleep on that back seat, when John couldn’t find anywhere for them to stay. He’d park them up in a lay by, wrap them in blankets he kept in the trunk. John would sleep right there, behind the wheel, arms folded across his chest.

If there was one thing he could fix, from this entire situation, it was that car. He downed the rest of his whiskey, flinching as it seared down his throat.

“I’m in,” he said.


	19. Chrysanthemum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Tracks for Chapter:  
> What's The Matter? - Milo Greene  
> Amused - HUNGER  
> The Killing Moon - Echo & The Bunnymen  
> This Is Us Colliding - Talos  
> Close To You - Michael Prins

 

Dean and Sam finally returned to school towards the end of January. Charlie and Cas had clubbed together to collect all of Dean’s missed work, Charlie even offered to sit and help him through it all. His teachers had talked about putting off his exams until the summer. Dean wasn’t sure he cared either way. It was hard to care about very much at all. He sat quietly with Cas and Charlie at lunch, joined by Jo, and listened to them talk across him, answering questions if they were directed to him, smiling and nodding in all the right places. Sam said that being surrounded by his teachers, work and his friends again had helped a little, but Dean just felt like he was drowning.

He was meant to be worrying about finals right now, like the rest of his class. Instead he spent most of his time trying to ignore the screaming of metal as it folded in half, the screech of brakes, the shattering of glass. Dean’s teachers were sympathetic, took it easy on him in class, but in some ways all their pity just made it worse. Like Dean was _meant_ to be feeling sorry for himself instead of picking up his sorry ass and preparing for the road ahead.

Charlie had been coming home with them, too, the old habit of study group clearly sticking a little too well. She said she liked hanging around with Missouri, and Dean supposed Jo’s presence also had something to do with it. They’d been getting on great, Jo and Charlie, and Jo had seemingly forgiven Dean his past transgressions at the Roadhouse. Cas was a constant, too. Always within arm’s reach, but stoic and quiet, almost unsure. Dean didn’t blame him. There was almost no making this better. Nothing anybody could say.

Just having them all close by, never being truly alone with his thoughts, was a small blessing. Dean didn’t possess the clarity of mind to say so, but he hoped they knew how grateful he was to them. For picking up the pieces, for holding him together.

Dean hadn’t been back to Bobby’s garage, back to see the Impala, since he’d agreed to help Bobby fix her. Part of Dean thrilled at the opportunity, but the other shrank away when he realised the price he’d paid. If Bobby was disappointed, he didn’t say so. Didn’t push it.

It was just the three of them walking home that afternoon, Sam telling Cas about his seed dormancy project, how his teacher thought it was an excellent idea. Dean knew Sam had spent nights awake with a flashlight and Karen’s gardening file, the old sheets of paper rustling together in the dark, getting an idea of what seeds and bulbs to plant where and when. Charlie had even helped him construct a chart of sorts, color coded and everything. .

Missouri was home when they got back, sat in front of a large cardboard box. Dean froze in the doorway to kitchen, where she sat, hands folded delicately over one another on the dining table. She motioned them to sit with a distant sort of smile. John’s death had hit her hard, too. “I got somethin’ for you boys,” she said, motioning to the box, “as well as your daddy’s Will.” Dean’s hand hovered over the box, feeling cold and apprehensive. “Dean,” she said, taking his hand and holding it tightly in hers, “the Impala is yours. John left it to you.”

Dean closed his eyes against the rush of conflict stirring within him. A hand to his shoulder grounded him, as he reached for the box and opened it. “The journal was left to Sam,” Missouri said, “the jacket’s for you, Dean.”

Disbelief colored his laugh as he pulled the huge, heavy leather jacket from the box. He bunched it beneath his nose instantly, breathing deep. The smell of his dad was almost overwhelming beneath the worn leather; motor oil, pine, sweat. It brought fresh tears to his eyes, which he smacked away impatiently.

The leather-bound journal was filled with photographs Dean thought he’d never see again, things that he thought had all burnt; either in the fire that took their home, or in the ones John purposefully lit to burn the past.

“There’s more, too,” Missouri smiled, “A fund your mom started up when you were born, Dean. Seems John never stopped paying into it. There’s enough there to get you by if you… want to go to college at some point. I know we ain’t really spoken much about it, but the option’s there.” Dean nodded, his eyes still watering, lips quivering as he pulled them into a delicate smile. He had no idea John had… there had never been any hint that John cared about their futures at all. Dean had misjudged him, once again.

“We put in Dean’s application to Waukesha Technical College,” Castiel said, “If he’s successful…”

Dean balked. Missouri’s eyes filled, “You did? You and Charlie?” Castiel nodded, looking a little bashful. Dean bunched his fists in the soft leather of his father’s jacket. Cas had no reason, no obligation to him…

He and Sam took their father’s legacy to their room, Dean hanging the jacket lovingly in his closet, putting Cas’s confession out of his mind for now. It was too overwhelming to consider in that moment, so he instead joined Sam on his bed as he flicked through the journal, watery smile on their faces as he skimmed through receipts, ticket stubs, napkins from diners, and endless photographs. The leather was worn and the pages well-thumbed. There was stuff in there dating all the way back to before he and Dean were even born. Sam slept curled around it that night. Dean’s sleep was deep, and mercifully free of dreams.

 

Castiel considered his reflection in the lounge window, in his smartest jeans and a dark blue button-down, trying desperately to get his hair to do anything other than sprout wherever it pleased. Meg Masters was holding a party while her parents were out of town for the weekend. As far as Castiel knew, half the town would be there. He wanted to look good. He saw Missouri in the window’s reflection, leaning against the archway between the kitchen and lounge, amusement tingeing her expression.

“Going out?” Castiel turned, smiling shyly and tugging at the seam of his shirt, feeling suddenly self-conscious. Missouri crossed the room, smoothing out the shoulders with a fond smile. “You look very handsome,” she said. Castiel rolled his eyes.

“Where’s Dean?” he asked, trying once more to help his hair achieve some semblance of order.

Her smile turned sad, “Been in his room most of today.”

Castiel flinched, helplessness spiking violently, “Has he eaten anything?”

Missouri’s expression turned rueful, “Didn’t know you cared so much.”

“I don’t,” Castiel scoffed, “he just… needs to eat.”

“I’m on it. Mac n’ cheese is sure to tempt him out, doncha think?”

Castiel’s phone buzzed in his hand. He flashed Missouri a quick smile, before locking himself in the bathroom upstairs to open the message.

_Any plans tonight, hot stuff?_

Castiel grit his teeth. He’d dared to hope that Alastair had grown bored of this little game. Christmas had been totally silent, but this nonsense had picked back up again with the start of the semester. Castiel replied quickly, before he could think better of it.

_What’s it to you?_

_I’ll be waiting at Meg’s party tonight, come find me._

Castiel clenched his fists, stuffing his phone back into his pocket.

Castiel had expected to go alone tonight, but when he saw Dean emerge from his bedroom in a dark green Henley and jeans… he looked good. There was the faintest smile on Dean’s lips, which fell slightly as their eyes met. Castiel rubbed a hand down his face.

That stupid kiss.

No matter that he wanted to do it again and again, Castiel had ruined everything. Missouri and Sam were on constant tenterhooks, unsure if he and Dean would even be able to sit in the same room as each other (they couldn’t) or if whatever had happened would blow over (it hadn’t). There had been glimpses, moments where Castiel thought Dean might have forgiven him, but it always clouded over again. It didn’t stop Castiel wanting to kiss Dean again. “Are you going to Meg’s party tonight?” Castiel hedged, hating how pathetic he sounded.

“Thought I might,” Dean shrugged. Castiel winced at the green of his eyes, muddied and dull. He and Charlie hadn’t even told Dean about the party, figuring he would say no.

“Cool,” Castiel said, awkwardly shuffling from one foot to the other. A horn honked outside, saving Castiel from digging himself a hole. Dean shrugged on his father’s leather jacket as Missouri came bustling from the kitchen to catch them at the door.

“Be safe and send me a message when you’re comin’ home!”

“Yup,” Dean called, already at the car where Charlie sat in the passenger seat with a mischievous grin on her face.

“Cas?” Missouri called, just as he crossed the threshold, “do somethin’ about Dean tonight, huh? You boys are drivin’ me crazy.”

Castiel smiled, “I’ll try. I’ll text you when we’re coming back.”

“That’s my boy,” Missouri grinned, “go have fun, y’hear?”

The ride with Charlie’s father was tense; not for any noticeable reason unless you were Castiel, squirming in his skin because he and Dean were pressed too close in the back of the Gremlin.

 

“Sorry about the close quarters back there, boys,” said Mr. Bradbury.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean replied, though it was clear to see _he_ was worried about it, tension rolling off him in heavy waves.

“Thanks for the lift,” Castiel added, squeezing his hands between his knees. He was terrified they’d do something stupid, like reach out for Dean.

“Oh, it’s no trouble,” Mr. Bradbury laughed, “if memory serves me, I know exactly what happens at senior parties.”

“Dad,” Charlie groaned, “please don’t be that guy.”

“Just be responsible, honey,” he said, patting her head. Charlie shot him a glare, hands shooting up to fix her bangs, “You needing me to pick you up? I’ve got an early start, don’t want to be the killjoy.”

“It’s fine,” Charlie placated easily, “Jo’s mom says she’s fine to drop us home, the bar’s open late anyway.”

“Alright, well give me a call if you need anything,” he said with a kiss to her forehead.

Meg, who Castiel had never met, lived on the other side of town, in the fanciest house Castiel had ever set foot in. There were people Castiel vaguely recognised from school already stumbling about the driveway, brightly colored lights flashing in almost every window. The music was so loud Castiel could feel it in his chest, knocking against his ribs in an intoxicating way. In the dark, he didn’t have to pretend. He could be anyone here. Charlie dragged them through the crowds to the kitchen, where five huge coolers were filled-to-the-brim with cheap beer. It appeared Dean had donned the appropriate mask, too. There was a grin on his face but something in it made Castiel shudder. It wasn’t like Dean’s normal smile. Something was missing. _Dean_ was missing.

“Bottom’s up!” Dean cried, handing both Castiel and Charlie a beer, clinking them together and proceeding to sink his back in one go. Castiel tried to keep his eyes off the way Dean’s throat moved as he swallowed.

“Okay, champ, take it easy, we’ve got all night,” Charlie laughed, her eyes widening as The Kinks blasted over the speakers, “Oh my god, this song! Let’s dance!”

Castiel indulged her. He had never been much for dancing, but he’d decided tonight was a night of chance. He was protected by the dark, by the sheer deafening volume of the music. He let Charlie drag him and Dean to the lounge, where the furniture had been pushed to the walls, to clear a space that was heaving with people. Dean had grabbed two more beers and he chucked them back as he swayed and laughed, a strangely empty sound that wasn’t his laugh at all.

Castiel noticed the concern on Charlie’s face, too, threading her thin eyebrows together. ‘Is he okay?’ she mouthed to Castiel, her head nodding toward Dean. Castiel grimaced in a way he hoped conveyed, ‘Just leave it alone, and for god’s sake don’t mention it’.

Charlie chewed at her bottom lip, eyeing Dean warily as he sank his third beer. Charlie brought him close, and said directly into his ear, “Let’s just keep an eye on him tonight.” Castiel nearly choked. He couldn’t remember a time where he hadn’t kept one eye on Dean Winchester. He nodded all the same and just hoped that the room was dark enough to hide the heat in his cheeks.

Meg sauntered over then, short but loud and full of energy. Castiel liked her immediately as she grabbed Charlie by the hips and danced provocatively with her before shaking Castiel’s hand firmly. “Meg,” she shouted over the music. Castiel introduced himself and Dean when it was clear he was headed back to the kitchen. “I haven’t seen you around, Cas, you new?”

“Been at Craig since September,” Castiel replied, “same as Dean.”

“It’s a big place,” she shrugged apologetically, lowering her voice and leaning closer, “Hey, is it true about Dean’s dad?”

Castiel’s eyes whirled, paranoid that Dean might have overheard, but he was too busy sinking into a bottle of Jack Daniels, slumped in the dark leather sofa. God, where had that come from? Charlie shrugged helplessly at him. “Don’t say anything about it,” Castiel replied.

“Just surprised to see him here.”

Castiel watched as Dean’s eyes began to fog, his face taking on the expression of a child full of candy: satiated and dumb.

“Me, too.”

The party writhed with sweat-glistening bodies, the smell of alcohol and cigarette smoke thick enough to chew. Castiel danced with Charlie until his inhibitions melted away, keeping a close watch on Dean as he did. Meg stuck around for a while. She proved herself an unexpected find: witty and intuitive. They swapped numbers before she was whisked away by other party goers. He tried not to let the text he’d received earlier bother him, but he did find himself glancing around the room, to see if he could catch Alastair skulking in a corner. He didn’t know why Alastair would _want_ Castiel to find him, but it couldn’t have been for anything good.

Charlie couldn’t have left for the kitchen more than a few seconds before a familiar cloying scent wafted towards him. _Lilith._ He was caught by her gaze, couldn’t escape if he dared. “Castiel!” she cried, wrapping her arms tightly around him before leaning back, “Open up, handsome.” She unscrewed a huge bottle of vodka clutched in her delicate fingers and poured it into his mouth. Determined not to seem weak to her, for fear she’d eat him whole, Castiel swallowed until the liquor burned his eyes and nose. Her smile turned predatory as she released him, coughing and spluttering, despite how much he tried to avoid it. “Adorable,” she purred in his ear, “dance with me.”

Castiel looked around desperately for Charlie, anyone who might save him from this. Not many people scared Castiel, but Lilith set him on edge in a way nobody else ever had. She grabbed at his hands, trying to twine her fingers with his, but he remained frozen. “Is that a no?” she pouted, the expression childish except for the stone coldness of her eyes, so grey they were almost white.

Castiel pasted on a confident smile he didn’t feel and began to dance with her. She pulled him close, wound his arms around her, settled his hands in the dip of her back. Castiel swallowed past his discomfort, but his smile fell just a little. Lilith plastered her body against his, he could feel the soft swell of her breasts press insistently against him. He curled his fingers as cautiously as he could manage and grit his teeth, biting back any words that would do him no good. Lilith rose up on her toes, speaking so close to his ear that he could feel the stickiness of her lip gloss against its edge. “Sometimes,” she said, fingers crawling up the back of his neck to tangle in his hair, “when Alastair kisses me, I like to pretend it’s you.”

Her hand tightened at the back of his head, pulled sharp enough for Castiel to hiss, and if Castiel was even slightly interested in women, the way she spoke to him, the thick drip of her voice, might have sent shudders of pleasure through him. As it was, Castiel was shuddering with discomfiture. “You and Al seem happy,” he hedged carefully as she leaned back to pour more vodka into his mouth. He swallowed with a grimace, every muscle in his body contracting, ready to escape.

“He’s weak,” she spat, “he’s so caught up with looking like a real man that he acts like a complete child. He’s totally at his father’s mercy.”  She sighed dramatically, leaning into him again, “He’s not a man like you. He’s just a scared, little boy.” Castiel felt her hands trail down his stomach and he tried to keep his flinch subtle as he moved just out of her reach. “Too public?” she crooned, laughing, “Shh, Castiel, I’m not going to eat you.”

Her grin said otherwise.

“Can I have a photo at least?” she asked, not waiting for his answer as she came close, holding her phone high above them. She pressed her sticky lips against the stubble of his cheek, too close to the corner of his lips, as the flash blinded him. Lilith seemed like the type of person who was used to getting what she wanted, never really having to ask. Castiel felt sick with revulsion. He needed to put space between them, fast.

“I’ll be right back,” he assured her, pushing her gently off him, narrowly avoiding shoving.

“Hurry back,” she murmured against the skin of his jaw.

He scrubbed his cheek raw when he finally got to the restroom, testing the lock three times to make sure she wouldn’t somehow follow him in. He shuddered as the phantoms of her fingers slid over his arms, down his stomach. He rushed to the toilet as a nauseating wave hit him so hard he stumbled. He gagged until his eyes ran but nothing came up. He got up, splashed his face, tried his best to wash away her smell that clung to his skin, had already embedded itself into his clothes.

It was close to midnight when Castiel recovered and finally returned to the lounge. He stopped in the middle of the doorway; he couldn’t see Dean. He wasn’t slumped on the couch, not dancing with Charlie, who had found Jo in the crowd. They drank their beers slowly, standing close together. Crowley was with them, too, frowning as his eyes found Castiel. He turned away from Crowley, panic beginning to rise in his throat.

Castiel searched every room, trying to stave off the tremble in his hands. The beer he’d had made his vision slightly hazy, and his tongue was fat in his mouth from the burn of the vodka, but still the happy buzz gave way to the steady tremor of panic. Now, it was too dark, too loud, it ramped up the beating of his heart to unbearable rates as he flung open every door he found. He had to find Dean.

He closed his eyes against wild imaginings of Dean hurting himself, or in the middle of the road, or lying in a puddle of his own vomit. _He’s fine, he’s fine, he’s fine_ , Castiel chanted as he hurled himself down the stairs and out the front door, grabbing his jacket from the hook. He no longer second-guessed why he cared. He found Dean out the back, a mostly-empty bottle of Jack Daniels clutched in his hand, leaning against the shed in Meg’s immaculate garden. Castiel slumped down next to Dean, out of breath and giddy with relief. Dean’s eyes were glassy as they struggled to focus on him, but when they did, his face broke out in a lazy smile.

“Cas,” he sighed happily, “hi.”

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel replied, reaching for the bottle in Dean’s hand, which his sluggish fingers gave up easily.

“I drank a lot,” Dean hiccupped, “I feel good.”

“You _did_ drink a lot,” Castiel replied, voice soft like speaking to a child, like he spoke to his mother after a bad night, “how full was this bottle before you started?”

“S’pretty full,” Dean confessed around a burp.

“How’re you feeling?” he asked, pasting his palm against Dean’s forehead, not really knowing why. He knew from looking that Dean’s skin would be clammy.

Dean shook his head slowly, “Fuzzy.” Dean’s eyes were on him then, and Castiel didn’t quite have the strength to look away. He watched as Dean’s eyes softened with his smile. “You got beautiful eyes, Cas.”

Castiel snorted, surprised, delighted, terrified, “Shut up.”

Dean shrugged, “Jus’ thought you should know.”

“Well, thank you,” Castiel huffed, chucking the bottle of Jack far out of either of their reach and sitting closer to Dean than he’d been allowed to in weeks, reveling selfishly in the feel of Dean pressed beside him.

“S’cold,” Dean shivered, despite the heat that radiated from him. Castiel shrugged his jacket off his shoulders without hesitation, and placed it over Dean’s, leaning a little closer under the pretense of keeping Dean warm. “You’re good, Cas,” Dean mumbled, “you’re so good.”

“I don’t know about that,” Castiel murmured.

“And this jacket smells good, like you.”

“It does, it’s mine.”

Dean giggled then; all six-foot, muscled mass of him, giggled like a little child.  “It _is_ yours.” Dean’s head found Castiel’s shoulder then, his fingers winding through Castiel’s in a loose grip. Castiel’s heart stopped dead, picking up a thrilling pace, hammering against his ribs. He was certain Dean could hear it. Dean’s fingers squeezed tightly against Castiel’s as he buried his face in the shoulder of Castiel’s shirt.

“I miss my dad,” Dean whispered. Castiel bit his lip, squeezing Dean’s fingers just as tightly. “Like… I just keep thinkin’, wonderin’ if he was comin’ to see us… when he…”

“This is not your fault,” Castiel said sternly, “Don’t you dare think that.”

“The last words I said to him…” Dean murmured, “I feel sick.”

“Dean-”

Dean leaned over, away from Castiel’s shoulder and promptly vomited by his hip. Castiel mourned the loss of Dean’s closeness but rubbed soothing lines into his back as Dean’s body rejected everything, messily, over the clean cut of Meg’s lawn. If he hadn’t seen this scene countless times in his life he might have the good grace to be slightly disgusted. As it was, it was something he’d grown used to.

“You’d better not get any of that on my jacket,” Castiel scolded gently.

“Too late” Dean moaned, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, retched again, “Tha’s better.”

“Come on,” Castiel grunted, lifting Dean from under his arms, “let’s get you home.”

“Cas,” Dean said, turning around in Castiel’s arms, so close their noses brushed. Dean’s eyes fluttered to Castiel’s lips, and though Castiel wanted nothing more than to kiss Dean again, hadn’t thought of anything else since the last time, he stilled Dean with a gentle hand to his shoulder.

Dean looked hurt, pouting like a child.

“Not like this, Dean,” Castiel said quietly.

Dean blushed, chuckling, his sour breath tickling Castiel’s cheek, “Right. Puke-mouth.”

“For starters.” Castiel smiled, “rain check.”

“‘Kay,” Dean grinned lazily, “‘cuz I wanna kiss you again.”

Castiel closed his eyes against the clench of his heart. He committed those words to memory, forced them past the alcoholic haze of his mind, repeated them over and over.

_I wanna kiss you again._

He wondered if Dean would remember that in the morning… or any of what had just happened between them. He shouldered Dean’s deadweight, chuckling as Dean began snoring softly in his ear. He hefted Dean through the crowds, ignoring the sniggers and giggles that followed. There was one pair of eyes though, trained on him, from the front door, that stopped him in his tracks. Alastair stood, his arms crossed, seething beneath a clenched jaw. _Fuck_. He began to stalk forwards, and Castiel gripped Dean closer to his side. It was all he could do not to collapse in relief as Charlie appeared in the hallway at that exact moment.

“Cas! Oh my god, is he okay?” she cried, rushing to hold up Dean’s other arm before following Castiel’s eyesight to Alastair in the doorway. She levelled him with a stare, “Can we help you?” Alastair seemed about to say something, but was interrupted once again by Charlie’s cutting tone, “That was actually a rhetorical question, I don’t give a rat’s ass.” Alastair’s eyes narrowed, and Castiel desperately wanted to tell Charlie just to shut the hell up, that she was only making him angrier, but Alastair simply locked eyes with Castiel, one more time, before sinking into the shadows of the lounge. “Fuckin’ creep,” Charlie yelled after him, getting a better grip on Dean before leading them out the door.

As they got to the edge of the lawn, Castiel heard Jo’s voice follow them from the front door, “You guys leaving?” Castiel grunted as Charlie dropped all of Dean’s weight on to him to wave Jo over. So much for the lift.

If Castiel didn’t like them both so much he’d have a few choice words to say.

They walked slowly, because of Dean’s passed-out body as a shared weight between the three of them. Turns out Ellen hadn’t actually offered anyone a lift home, for which Jo was endlessly apologetic. Frost glistened on the windows of cars parked along the sidewalk, and four sets of teeth chattered loudly in the dark. Castiel opened his phone to text Missouri, reading through a bunch of messages from her, growing more and more frantic the later it got. He winced; it was almost 2am. They walked through town, shuddering, taking turns to bare Dean’s weight. Castiel was frozen to the bone without his jacket on, but outright refused Charlie’s when she offered.

“Okay,” Jo gruned from beneath Dean’s arm, “Dean-o needs to wake the hell up.”

“I don’t wanna slap him,” Charlie pouted, “he’s too cute like this.”

Castiel snorted, “There’s a fountain just there, look, by that park.” They dragged Dean across the road, laying him face down in the drinking fountain. The water was freezing as it splashed across Dean’s freckled skin. He awoke instantly with a gasp, shuddering at the ice-cold water dripping down his neck from his hair.

“Hi,” Jo waved, “welcome back.”

“Bastards,” Dean said, wiping a hand down his face, “Where are we?”

“On the way home, and you’re too fuckin’ heavy,” Jo said, “you’re gonna walk and you’re gonna sober up.”

Dean sulked, “You’re mean.”

“And you’re a mess,” Jo said, “snap out of it and walk.” Castiel flinched, wondering if Jo’s words were just a hair too callous, that Dean would spiral, that his grief would take the reins again. But Dean’s eyes cleared, and though it was clear he was still hurting, he straightened his back and nodded. His progress was slow and stumbling, falling into Castiel and tripping over his feet. The girls split off soon after, Jo’s statement of “Just gonna get this one home,” setting a blush deep in Charlie’s cheeks that even the night couldn’t hide. Castiel smiled quizzically after them, giggling and jostling one another down the street.

“They don’t even live close,” Dean murmured, swaying on his feet.

Castiel huffed a laugh. Dean could be so obtuse.

“Come on, we’re almost home.”

“What?” Dean said, stopping dead and staring at Castiel like he’d grown a pair of wings.

“I said we’re almost-”

“ _Home_. Yeah. You jus’ called Missouri’s house ‘home’.”

Castiel shook his head, “I didn’t mean-”

“Yeah, you did,” Dean grinned, crowding close again, not needing Castiel’s physical support anymore but just for the sake of being close. Castiel wasn’t about to complain. He reached for Dean’s hand, heart fluttering when Dean’s fingers closed about his easily. “You’re all soft,” Dean mumbled, “Like, I thought you were this dick cyborg with no feelings but…”

“Don’t say another word,” Castiel ground, his farcical-angry expression cracking at the sound of Dean’s laughter.

“Like a marshmallow,” Dead giggled.

“Shut up.”

They walked like that, joined hands swinging between them, Dean’s head swiveling as he counted the stars above them. Castiel couldn’t remember being so happy. And it hurt, knowing that come the morning, he’d have to pretend like this never happened. Dean wouldn’t remember, Castiel was sure of it. He tried his best to lose himself in the present instead, the warm thickness of Dean’s fingers between his, the tune Dean hummed beneath his breath, the way his eyes softened when he looked to Cas every few seconds. Castiel risked tripping over his own feet just to stare at him.

How quickly he’d fallen. It was ridiculous, like something you read about. He liked Dean slowly, and then all at once, and it scared the hell out of him.

“Ah, shit,” Dean said suddenly, smacking himself in the head.

“What?”

Dean was pouting again, but there wasn’t much humor behind it this time. “Left my jacket.”

Castiel groaned, pulling on Dean’s hand, still clasped tightly in his, “We’ll get it in the morning. We’re almost there.”

Dean nodded, looking at the ground and suddenly forlorn.

“Was my dad’s jacket,” he said quietly.

Missouri’s face was a mixture of relief and disappointment as they finally stumbled through the door. She fussed over Dean, checking his face and tsking at his expression, glazed and dumb. “How much has he had?”

Castiel shook his head, finally letting Dean’s hand drop from his, instantly mourning its loss. He’d probably never feel that again. “A lot.”

“Has he thrown up?” she asked, wiping the hair away from Dean’s clammy face. She cradled him like a child despite the height difference.

“All over my jacket, yeah,” Castiel chuckled.

“You did good, hon” she said before turning back to Dean, “I’m gonna get you a whole lotta water, and I want you to drink it all down, every drop, you understand?”

Dean nodded shyly, “I’m sor-”

“You don’t need to apologise, hon, I ain’t mad. I’m disappointed, but I ain’t mad at you. Your hangover in the mornin’ will be punishment enough,” she sighed, “now get to bed, both of you.”

As Castiel lay in bed that night, frozen limbs thawing beneath the covers, he could have sworn he felt Dean’s fingers pressed between his own, Dean’s hair tickling against his cheek. And Dean’s voice, repeating those same five words over and over until he fell asleep.

_I wanna kiss you again._

 


	20. Snapdragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Tracks for Chapter:  
> Burleston, TX - Clem Leek  
> Can't You See? - Matthew And The Atlas  
> Narrow Mouth - The Early November  
> The Stand - The Alarm

Dean’s brain felt like soup the next morning; a heavy, vindictive soup. Sunlight hurt when he tried to open his eyes. At first, he couldn’t work out why the curtains would be drawn, until he risked another peek to see Sam standing beside his bed with disappointment setting his features stern.

“Dean,” he ground.

Dean groaned, “No.”

“Open your eyes, Dean,” Sam said. Dean did so, trying not to sulk, shading them with his hand to lessen the sting. “Last night was not cool.”

“Sammy-”

“Missouri and I were really worried about you guys!”

“Why?”

“Maybe because Cas didn’t text until 2am? And then you come in and Missouri has to help you get into bed? What the hell, Dean?” Dean ran his hands over his aching face, trying to claw back any memories from last night, but everything was fuzzy. His tongue was fuzzy. His feet, too. He looked down, puzzled, and wiggled his toes inside a pair of bright pink slipper socks. Missouri must have put them on for him. His guilt ramped its way ever higher.

“I get it,” Sam said, his voice quiet, “you miss dad, but… that doesn’t mean you have to do exactly what he did.”

Dean flinched. Sam was right. John had had a nasty habit of drinking whenever the pain got too much. Or whenever birds sang in the morning, or the sun set in the West. He’d just get sad, really fucking sad as beer cans collected empty about his feet. Or if it was really bad, there’d be glass bottles lined along the windowsills collecting dust as John just sat, wasting away, in his chair. He didn’t eat, he didn’t speak, he just drank until he couldn’t feel anymore. And isn’t that what Dean tried last night? He felt like a fucking idiot.

“Sammy-”

“I don’t need apologies as much as I need a promise that that’s the last time you do that, Dean. I’m not losing you, too.”

How fucking selfish had he been? He and Sammy… they only had each other left. What if something had happened to him last night? He’d been so stupid. Dean dragged his brother onto the bed with him, holding him tightly. He could feel Sam’s shoulders start to shake, the tell-tale wetness growing against the shoulder of his shirt and Dean just held him through it.

“I promise, Sammy. I’m gonna do better than that, I promise.”

Sam sniffled, pulling away and wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand, “Good. Hey,” Sam leant down, retrieving a little wrapped package, “Happy birthday.”

Dean started, looking to his phone to confirm the date. He’d completely forgotten. He eagerly tore open the package with both hands, the contents stilling his hands as sure as a slap to the face.

His mom was smiling up at him.

“Sam…”

“Found it in the journal,” Sam murmured, “she’s beautiful, right?”

Mary Winchester was young in the picture, her blonde hair curling away from her bright face where she sat on a picnic blanket, raising a glass of champagne to the camera. Dean ran a finger down her face, over and over, remembering her voice, the smell of her.

“Thanks, Sammy, seriously,” he smiled, propping up the picture on the nightstand between their beds, “I love it.”

“You’re welcome,” Sam said, fiddling with the edge of Dean’s comforter, “Now go shower, you stink.”

And despite the ever-present ache in his chest, the rolling nausea and the banging against his skull, Dean laughed easier than he had in weeks. Later, when he stepped under the shower to wash the grime from his skin, Dean’s whole body sighed in relief. And then it began taunting him. He felt fingers, strong and slender, slotted in between his own. He was sure of it. He could smell Cas, that unique smell of his, like summer rain. It was all over him, intensified by the steam billowing around him. Dean shook himself. It was impossible, a trick of his imagination. He and Cas still weren’t fine, hadn’t been good for weeks. His stomach fluttered all the same, providing more phantom sensations; a strong shoulder leaning flush against his own, gentle hands rubbing at his back. Dean shuddered as the first sensations of pleasure tingled through his limbs. He squeezed his eyes shut, forced himself to think of salad until the fire eased off.

He was not about to spring a boner over Castiel Krushnic. Nope. No way.

Cas was at the stove, tending to the toaster, and his eyes followed Dean as he sat at the kitchen island. He seemed even more uncomfortably-attentive than usual. Maybe something  _ had _ happened last night. Dean found it hard to believe that anything his body imagined just now was real but… maybe they’d talked? Castiel offered him a shy smile and a nod, which… yeah, Dean was beyond confused.

Missouri turned from the sink, pulling the gloves from her hands and looking at him in that knowing way of hers, “Did you talk to Sam?” Dean flinched, nodding carefully to avoid jostling his headache. Missouri hummed to herself, grabbing a mug from the cupboard.  “Well, happy birthday. How’re you feelin’?” she asked, pressing a cup of bizarre-looking tea into his hands.

He swallowed a gag from the intense smell that wafted from the cup, “Thanks. What’s in this?”

“Just drink it,” she said, hands planted firmly on her hips.

Whatever was in that cup, it stung at Dean’s mouth and throat as he swallowed it in a few quick gulps. But once it reached his stomach, it spread like so many soothing hands to dull the pain in his head and calm the churning of his insides. He sighed in relief, “Magic.”

“Courtesy of Marcy Ward’s Pomeranian,” she grinned. Even Castiel laughed, barely covered with the palm of his hand. Dean sulked as he picked hairs from his tongue.

Castiel was looking at him again, Dean could feel the burn of it.

“Dean,” Castiel said from in front of him, armed with a plate of bacon, toast, eggs, mushrooms, the works. Dean salivated, digging in immediately.

“Yeah?” he said, through a full mouth.

“I’m coming with you to get your jacket today.”

Dean frowned, “What?”

“You left your jacket at Meg’s. I’m coming with you to get it.”

_ What?  _ “Why?”

“Well, mostly because I doubt you remember the way, but also I’d like to see Meg again,” said Castiel, tucking into a bowl of cheerios as he leant against the kitchen counter. Dean could feel his eye twitch. Cas was a strange guy, but this was beyond unusual. They hadn’t spoken more than ten words to one another since the… since New Years’ Eve.

Missouri’s face seemed just as puzzled as she looked between the two of them. Sam smiled around his forkful of bacon. Dean rolled his eyes, “Sure, whatever.”

Castiel’s smile slipped, almost imperceivable, with a curt nod.

The morning was brisk, the air clear and cold. Snow was still gathered at the curbs, grey and sludgy. The walk back to Meg’s was tense, tense as it ever was between him and Cas, and though it pained him to admit it, Cas was right: Dean would have never remembered the way. “Should’ve called Charlie for a lift,” Dean huffed in the mid-morning chill, the sun doing nothing to warm him or the air around him.

Castiel smirked, “Reckon she’s probably a little preoccupied this morning.”

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s just say Jo ‘walked her home’ last night.”

Dean barked a laugh, shocked out of him, “No.” He knew Jo and Charlie had been getting close recently but… geez that was quick.

Castiel nodded, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes, “Yup.”

“No fuckin’ way,” Dean laughed, “didn’t know Jo was such a  _ dog.  _ They don’t even live near each other.”

Cas stopped, cocking his head to the side and squinting his eyes, “You said that last night.”

“I did?” Dean said, feeling a little flustered, “Huh, what else don’t I remember?” He knew he didn’t imagine Castiel’s expression glaze over the moment the question left his lips. Something happened last night, Dean was certain now. “Did something…” Dean wasn’t sure he had the stomach to finish that question.

Castiel held his gaze for a long time, eyes searching his until Dean squirmed with discomfort. “No,” Castiel finally said, with a smile that stopped at his lips, “we, uh… talked a little, about the...”

Dean cleared his throat, mostly to save himself from hearing anything more about the kiss that haunted every dream, waking or asleep.

Castiel shot him a grateful look as they continued to walk.

“So, you reckon Jo and Charlie, you know,” Dean said, waggling his eyebrows, a desperate attempt to bridge the gap. He definitely didn’t imagine the slackening of Cas’s shoulders.

“Don’t be vile,” Castiel snorted, but upon catching Dean’s insistent look, he deflated, “yeah, probably.”

“Heck yeah,” Dean crowed.

Meg was dressed in an oversized band shirt and not much else when she answered the door with a yawn.

Dean instantly perked up, “Metallica, nice.”

Meg looked Dean in the eyes, “Bite me.”

She stared between Dean and Cas, waiting for any sort of explanation before rolling her dark eyes, “Get in here, it’s fucking freezing.”

Meg’s house looked much different in the daylight: modest, but certainly bigger than Missouri’s or Dean’s old house back in Lawrence. It boasted dark, hardwood floors, and the lounge had that kind of carpet that made you sigh when your toes squished into it. It was also, however, a complete mess. Crushed cans and empty bottles littered every available surface, the sofas seemed turned inside out, with their padded seats ripped from the frames to hang limp like sleeping limbs. There was also a sizeable hole in the wall, debris and broken glass decorating the floor beneath.

“Jesus,” Dean whistled.

“Yeah, I find it’s better if you just… don’t look at it,” Meg said, yawning.

“Where are your parents?” Cas asked.

“On their way home,” Meg shrugged, sleepily picking up empty bottles, just to put them down again somewhere else.

“And you were going to just clear this up on your own?” Dean asked, taking in the sheer amount of debris, the sickening stains sunk deep into the carpet.

Meg grinned at the two of them, “Not now.”

Cas narrowed his eyes, “And if we hadn’t shown up?”

“Ah, I’d’ve probably called you.”

Cas indulged in an eye roll so dramatic it involved his entire body. “We actually just came to get Dean’s jacket,” Cas said, moving into the hall to retrieve it, “and I’m half-tempted to leave you here in the mess of your own making.”

“Oh, come on, Cas,” Meg pleaded, “Please?”

Castiel came back into the room clutching Dean’s jacket, “We’ll give you an hour. That’s it.”

Dean sighed, taking his father’s jacket and placing it carefully over a dining room chair. His thoughts turned petulant. He wanted his bed, not to clean up mess he hadn’t made. And what was with Cas this morning? Cooking breakfast? Helping Meg? He had to admit, it was an unexpected, but pleasant metamorphosis he’d undergone in the last few months. And while he was quick to argue it, Dean had to admit Cas probably hadn’t kissed Dean to be mean about it. Because it always came back to that kiss.

And there he was now, already righting the sofas and picking up empty cans. Resolutely  _ not _ being an asshole.

Nausea made bending dangerous, so Dean settled for collecting bottles and cans from surfaces, quickly filling a garbage bag. Dean slowly cleaned his way over to the huge hole in the wall, stopping to trace the jagged edges with his fingers. “What happened here?”

Meg’s eyes headed heaven-wards with a sigh, “Oh,  _ shit _ , I totally forgot, I was going to ask you guys actually, since you’re the last people he saw.”

“Who?” Dean asked, racking his brain, coming up infuriatingly blank.

“Alastair. He just went… fucking nuts after you guys left. Throwing shit, he punched that into my wall, lord knows how I’m gonna explain that one.”

Dean frowned, looking to Cas, who looked just as perplexed. “You know why?” Dean asked.

“Think it’s got something to do with Cas here, playing a little tonsil hockey with Al’s girl.”

“What?” Cas cried, “Lilith?”

Dean slapped his hands over his stomach, where a familiar sensation began to bubble.  _ Shut up _ , he told it firmly,  _ I ain’t gonna feel jealous, or anything else about Castiel Krushnic, is that clear? Stop. _

“There’s pictures, Cas,” Meg insisted, her expression pained, “Lilith said you took them, said you got crazy handsy with her. I mean, each to their own and all, but she gives me the creeps.”

“That…” Cas looked stunned, his eyes dancing frantically between the two of them, “no, that didn’t happen.”

“There are  _ pictures _ , Cas, of the two of you makin’ out and… hold up, lemme find them.”

“ _ Find _ them?” Dean and Cas chorused incredulous.

“Oh yeah,” Meg said, cocking a hip as she unlocked her phone, “she sent them around the school email.”

Cas's face didn’t have much color in it at the best of times, but what little there was, drained from his cheeks. He stood slack-jawed, staring at Meg, near-snatching her phone away as he read Lilith’s email aloud:

_ Dear student body, _

_ Below I have attached images that some of you may find disturbing or explicit, but I’m sure you’ll agree that this sort of thing needs to be talked about and prevented from ever happening again. _

_ This is Castiel Krushnic, I’m sure you’ve all met him, he’s new to our senior class. Kind of a nobody, right? Wrong. Tonight, at Meg Masters’s party, he seduced me. He then proceeded to touch me without my consent, while getting some poor junior at the party (by way of horrific violence) to take pictures while he raped me. _

_ Below are the pictures; be advised, while I have censored the images, they are still disturbing. _

_ Your support and your strength at this time is greatly appreciated. _

Meg nodded, wincing at Cas's bewildered expression, “I didn’t think it was true,” she rushed, “not for a second. But I thought you should see it.”

“She acted fast… when did this come through? Did she do this here?” Castiel asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t remember seeing her past like… midnight. Came through just before you guys left.”

Dean felt sick, “You didn’t do it, right, Cas?”

“How can you even ask me that?” Castiel snapped, “I wouldn’t. Not ever. How could she do this?”

“What about the pictures?” Dean said, hating himself for asking. Castiel showed them wordlessly, pointing to the one of Lilith lying on her back, a man, pantless between her legs. The image was dark, a large portion of it blurred, but the man was taller, narrower than Cas was.

“That’s not me, this never happened,” Cas insisted, his voice panicked, “how the fuck am I getting out of this?”

“Fuck,” Dean breathed, “I mean… she can’t report it, right? It’s false.”

“They’ll test her and see that she hasn’t been touched at all, and if she has, that your DNA is nowhere near her,” Meg added.

“The whole fucking school?” Cas exclaimed, “Why? Why is she doing this?”

Dean frowned, thinking back to Alastair, how mad he’d been at Cas a few months ago, “You reckon Alastair asked her to do this?” There was a dawning on Cas's face that Dean didn’t like at all, it looked like it was bitter-tasting. Castiel scrabbled for his phone, a cheap flip-up, shoving it into Dean’s hands, “I’ve been getting these messages for a while now, I… that has to be him too, doesn’t it?”

Dean read through the messages, threatening, horrific, frightening. How long had Cas suffered through this alone? He felt sick to his stomach, guilty for not knowing what he can’t have known. He handed back the phone, gut churning, “Holy shit, Cas, when were you gonna tell someone? These are… fuck, he’s been followin’ you?”

Cas shrugged, “I’m not sure. I think so? He knows what I’m doing, where I am… any given moment. I thought it was just… not harmless, but-”

“When the fuck were you gonna tell Missouri? Bobby? Me? How long has this been happening’, Cas?”

“Since November,” Cas murmured, looking at his shoes. Dean’s heart plummeted sharp. He’d had no idea… nobody had had any idea. Cas just suffered all this in silence. Dean had known Alastair was a creep for a while, but he’d underestimated just how dangerous he was. And now Lilith, too.

Meg took the phone, scrolling through the phone. Castiel was apprehensive at first, what with the nature of most of the messages, but if she thought anything about his orientation, she didn’t voice it. Instead, she swallowed audibly, running a hand through her shock of dark hair, “I don’t know, this doesn’t seem like Alastair.”

“Who else could it be?” Dean snapped, “Who else is sick enough to do something like this?”

“Wait,” Cas said, “You said Alastair did that?” Castiel pointed a shaking hand to the hole in the wall.

Meg nodded slowly, “I’ve never seen him so mad.”

Cas bit his lip, his fists clenching, “Why would Alastair be mad about all this if he was behind it?”

Castiel tried to swallow past the panic that blinded him, choked him, pushed him closer to oblivion. This would ruin everything, his applications, his future. If this got out past the school, even if there was some sort of trial, he was done for. This was it. He tried to breathe through the spiral, but it was hard to argue with it this time. This was serious, so much bigger than him. His phone rang. He snatched it back from Meg’s hands, left the room on legs no more sturdy than wet tissue.

It was Charlie. He braced himself. “Cas,” she cried, “I just saw the email. Listen, nothing’s going to happen. That poisonous bitch is going down.” Castiel had never heard Charlie angry, and it brought him up short.

“Wait,” Cas stuttered, “you don’t believe her?”

“Of course I don’t, don’t be ridiculous. I know you; you’re gay, for one.” If Castiel had water in his mouth he would’ve spat it out. He glanced around quickly to see if Dean and Meg had overheard but they were talking to one another as they righted the living room. It wasn’t that he was ashamed; far from it. It was just something he preferred not to shout about. “Two, I saw you with her;  _ she _ took the photos,  _ she _ touched you and you ran away. Three, you were with Dean the rest of the night because you’re completely in love with him.”

Castiel felt himself redden, his cheeks burning white hot, “I am not.”

“Yes, you are.”

Castiel swallowed. He’d not slept last night, too busy committing every sensation Dean had given him to memory. The room around him spun in the dark, and Castiel had a doom-laden feeling the alcohol was only part of the problem. “How are we doing this?”

“There are a few things you don’t know about me, Cas, but one you definitely should know is to never underestimate me.”

Castiel felt numb the entire walk back from Meg’s. His thoughts were swirling, a veritable hurricane of panic screaming ad nauseum. It was useless; the damage had been done. Whether Lilith was punished for what she had done or not, the label had been cast and it would follow him like a putrid smell if he stayed here. It would follow him to college, taint everything. There was nothing he could do to scrub that from himself now. Dean was struggling too, with the weight of it all. Castiel saw it in the heavy drag of his feet, the unevenness of his breathing, as if preparing to say something before aborting the idea all together. It scratched at his nerves, poking, prodding in all the right, explosive sorts of places.

“It’s gonna be okay, Cas,” Dean mumbled finally, and Castiel’s eyes skyrocketed heavenward, emotion bursting through the dam, strong enough to steal his breath.

“How?” he roared, whirling, face inches from Dean’s despite the height difference, just like the old days, “How in any way, is this going to be okay?” Dean shrugged, casting his eyes down. “Next time you think of something fucking stupid to say,” Castiel spat, unable to keep the venom from his voice, “keep it to yourself.”

Dean’s face reddened, indignation pulling at his features, “Don’t be a fuckin’ dick, I’m just tryin’ to-”

“Yeah, well don’t,” Castiel bit, breathing through the boil of anger he hadn’t felt in months. He gritted his teeth against saying any more, though hundreds of cutting words threw themselves against the tight purse of his lips. Castiel’s phone vibrated against his leg, insistent and he felt a wave of relief as Charlie’s name flashed up on the screen.

“Hey, Charlie,” he sighed, breath leaving his lungs all at once to cloud between their faces. He did his best to school his voice, soften out the edges of his frustration. Dean watched him closely as they spoke, the burn of his eyes hot enough to cut Castiel through to the bone.

“Okay, so I’ve been doing some digging,” Charlie said, “Lilith has a history of this.” Castiel heard the furious tapping of her delicate fingers against a keyboard.

“A history of?”

“Of dragging guys through the dirt. Specifically, ones who reject or humiliate her in some way. Guess she doesn’t like to be told ‘no’.”

Castiel scoffed, waving Dean off as he mouthed a desperate  _ what? _ “So, what do we do with that?”

“God, do I have to spoon-feed you everything?” Charlie groaned, “This is calculated behaviour, something she’s done before.”

“Going to need another spoonful,” Castiel winced as Charlie sighed heavily back at him.

“She could go away for this. Like,  _ juvie  _ away.”

“Holy shit, that was fast,” Castiel breathed, causing Dean’s eyes to bug out in his desperation to be included.

“You’re welcome. Only thing is I don’t want to be… you know, the face of this case. If Lilith gets out, it’s gonna be my head she wants.”

“So, what do we do?”

“I’m gonna make up a file, gather all this shit together, you’re gonna tell Missouri.” Castiel groaned, heat spreading quickly to fill his face. Talking about something as…graphic as this with Missouri… He dragged a heavy hand through his hair, pulling sharply as he went. “Don’t give me that, she’ll know what to do. She’s the lawyer remember?”

“Alright, alright.”

“Gimme like, half an hour to get all this stuff printed and I’ll meet you at Missouri’s, okay?”

“Charlie-”

“I expect a medal, by the way.”

Castiel would’ve given her anything in that moment. He hadn’t expected anything like this, surely hadn’t deserved it. But there she was.

“Anything, Charlie. And thank you.”

“Gingernut, out!”

Castiel sighed as he hung up, some of the tension from his shoulders easing just a fraction. Dean’s eyebrows had raised to the vicinity of his hairline, his eyes wide and bright. “Well?” he demanded. Castiel smirked, his irritation completely forgotten, the slate wiped clean.

“Charlie is awesome.”

“Well yeah, we knew that. Was lookin’ for a little more along the ‘holy shit’ sort of line.”

He told Dean everything, their pace slowed as Castiel began to process it all, the idea that he could do something about this. Something that wasn’t going to land him knee-deep in more messes he couldn’t clear. That he had people around him who were supportive, who believed him over vindictive rumor. It was overwhelming. It was…

“I’m sorry,” he blurted, with a hand to Dean’s shoulder, “for snapping at you. I…”

Dean frowned, but amusement was set in the crinkles by his eyes, “You don’t gotta apologise, Cas. This shit would eat anybody up.” Castiel nodded, a pleasant buzz radiating from his palm, still against the soft cotton of Dean’s plaid shirt.

Charlie arrived not long after Castiel had closed the front door and held him in a ferocious hug that ground his shoulder blades together. She checked Dean over, too as if he hadn’t been babied enough. Dean batted her hands away with an offended expression but Castiel knew he secretly loved the attention. Missouri was in her office, as usual, checking over emails. Charlie squared her shoulders, clutching her file tight to her chest and knocked.

Missouri sat very quiet at her desk, nodding, her brow furrowed as Castiel handed her his phone, taking her through the text messages and Lilith’s email. She listened closely, didn’t once interrupt, but from the tight line of her mouth Castiel could tell she was greatly upset.  Charlie sat between Castiel and Dean on a chair they brought in from the kitchen island, her legs jostling impatiently as Missouri took one piece of evidence at a time and read through each leaf in scrutinizing detail.

“So,” Missouri sat back, hand firmly placed on her chin, “you got any idea who the texts are from?”

“Alastair-” Castiel and Dean supplied.

“Lilith,” Charlie said firmly. Castiel’s heart jolted.

“What?” all three asked, turning to Charlie.

“It was Lilith,” she affirmed, pulling out another few sheets of paper, color-coded and meticulous, which she handed over with a firm and serious expression, “she’s done this before.”

Missouri laughed, “Girl, this is incredible.”

Charlie preened a little, leaning forwards, “She has this crazy system: she finds herself an idiot and a new toy. Then, she pits them against each other. In Cas’s case, she used several burner phones, changed the tone, masqueraded as Alastair and… practically anyone, throw Cas off the scent, get him scared. Except, in this case-”

“The ‘new toy’ wasn’t an easy play,” Dean supplied with a grin. Charlie nodded, rubbing a hand across Castiel’s shoulder.

“So, she’s the brain and he’s the brawn,” Castiel concluded.

“Seems like,” Missouri said, gathering Charlie’s notes before turning to her with a proud smile, “you ever thought of police work, hon?” Charlie ducked her head, her cheeks coloring with a huff of self-conscious laughter. “Castiel,” Missouri continued, “I’ll need you to send me every single message she sent you.  I’ll need the timestamps, too. You leave this with me,” Missouri leant back in her chair, appraising the three of them with a soft gaze.

“You all did so good, but I got it from here.”


	21. Thistle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Came So Easy - The Weather Station  
> I wanna Be Yours - Arctic Monkeys  
> Breaking Free - Night Riots  
> Red Earth & Pouring Rain - Bear's Den

Dean lay on his side, glaring daggers at the Sammy’s peaceful form, sound asleep on the other side of the room, snoring softly. Damn him. How could he be sleeping right now? Dean couldn’t sleep. Something had shifted between him and Cas. He knew it, he just didn’t know what, or how. And damn it if that wasn’t the most frustrating thing in the world. Every time he closed his eyes he saw that kiss, saw Cas’s face inches from his own, just like it had been that morning. His eyes were burning, yes, but not with irritation. And Dean couldn’t stand it. Part of him just wanted to forget the whole thing, have someone wipe his memory clean; give him a good smack across the head with a two-by-four. The other, much more insistent half was desperate to know if Cas was suffering too.

Probably not, right? Dean was kidding himself. It was all so confusing; he didn’t like Cas, but if he didn’t think about it too hard, it was easy to admit he totally did, and it was just... he felt dizzy, overwhelmed, most of the time. He lay there for a long time, the silence of the house so profound he could hear his own heartbeat. He eked one foot out of the covers, changed his mind and turned to face the wall instead. But the wall did nothing to quiet his mind. Before he could think about it any longer he threw the covers from his body, hauled his legs over the side and crept across the floor to the door, edging it open a millimeter at a time. It was known to creak, and Dean hardly had the patience to work it open silently. He had to do this.

He snuck down the stairs, lifting himself carefully over the one that always groaned underfoot, no matter how softly he trod on it. At the bottom of the stairs he paused, listening for any sound, any clue that he wasn’t alone here. The house gave him nothing but the soft rustling of the wind and rain outside. He took the few steps to the lounge door and stared at the wood. Because beyond that door was either going to destroy him or end up the best decision of his life.

Only one way to know for sure.

He lay his hand on the doorknob, inched it round. It was turning faster in his hand. It opened before he’d pushed.

And there he was. Cas. Hair wild, like a hundred hands had run their way through them. “Dean,” he said, careful to keep his voice quiet, “what are you-” Dean couldn’t speak. He was painfully aware of Cas’s bare chest, grey sweatpants…  _ his _ grey sweatpants, slung low across his hips. He took a deep breath, hating how much it shuddered. Nothing could quell the hammering of his heart.

“Dean?”

This was such a stupid idea, such a freakin’ _ stupid idea. _ “I, uh,” Dean stammered. Cas tilted his head to the side, seemingly willing to wait a short eternity for Dean’s answer. Dean ran a frustrated hand through his hair, pulling sharply as he went. _ Say something, _ Dean chanted,  _ say something, say something.  _ “Couldn’t sleep,” he laughed, to keep himself from crying.

“Me either,” Cas whispered, “You wanna… I can… I dunno, we can see what’s on.”

Dean snorted derisively, “It’s 1:30.”

“Infomercials,” Cas shrugged, sleepy smile softening his features. Making him so damn beautiful. Dean couldn’t deny it for another second. Maybe it was the cover of darkness, the safety of Missouri’s home, those damn sweatpants.

Dean liked him. He really, truly, had a crush on Castiel.

And that was ten kinds of complicated. Wasn’t it?

So, they sat at the head of Cas’s sofa bed, crawling under the covers as it got a little colder. Cas shrugged on a t-shirt half way through the Speed-Abs demonstration. Dean watched the muscles of his back shift beneath Cas’s skin from the corner of his eye. He pictured a disgusting Greek salad, loads of raw onion and olives. He sat through an hour of infomercials, pretending to watch before he realised Cas was asleep. Curled up, hands folded in front of his peaceful face. Fingers grazing against Dean’s hip. Delicate little snores fell from between his lips. Dean eased himself down the bed, lay himself down, making two parallel lines of their bodies. The covers hissed beneath his body, the springs groaning in protest. Cas didn’t stir.

Dean lay there a long time, his hands ghosting across Cas’s. His fingers ached to wrap around them, bring them to his lips, but Dean didn’t indulge them. Their situation was a delicate one to navigate, one that could tip into disaster on a single breath. He didn’t dare ruin it. The moment his fingers reached out, traced the air just above Cas’s cheekbone, down the straight edge of his nose, over the delicate arch of his brow, Dean wrenched himself away. It hurt, but it was right. That room, that bed, the darkness and the silence, the gentle fall of Cas’s ribcage as he slept, there was a lot of grey area there. Dean didn’t want to risk anything.

So, he extracted himself from a situation that had haunted his dreams, didn’t stop until he was back in his own bed, cold and empty.

He didn’t sleep.

Monday morning felt like Castiel’s first day at Craig High all over again. People stared wherever he went, and whispers crowded against his ears, deafening and constant. He kept his head down, tried his best to ignore the burning sensations of all those eyes on him, watching for his next move. It was all in hand, he reminded himself, Lilith couldn’t make another move without a check-mate.

He picked absently at the canteen fries in front of him, batting Dean’s hand away from them every so often. He’d been disappointed to find himself alone when he woke that morning, sure that Dean would stay. His heart had raced, skin blushed, when he found Dean on the other side of that door. He’d wanted to see Dean, spent the night convincing himself how stupid that would be. He’d had a vague plan of sending him a text just to see if he was awake, but what the hell would he have said? But, Dean had come. He’d been there, waiting with his hand on the door knob. And he’d stayed. And what the ever-loving hell did  _ that  _ mean?

He let Charlie and Dean’s conversation wash over him; something about Tom Bombadil and whether he was a nature spirit, or something called a Maia. Castiel had no idea what any of it meant, but he liked watching how passionate Dean got as he argued Bombadil as an unknowable spirit of Middle Earth itself. And tried not to translate that passion to anything else. Charlie looked ready to bite back, but pulled short, her eyes caught on something just over Castiel’s shoulder.

Crowley was hovering by the doors, leading directly outside. His expression was pointed, as if Castiel was supposed to know what it meant. He got up, Dean’s hands immediately scooping up the rest of his fries. Castiel hadn’t had an appetite since yesterday morning. Crowley vanished out the doors to light a cigarette with gently shaking hands. His brow was furrowed, his dark eyes tracking Castiel until he was leaning against the cold brick wall, blowing into the cave of his hands.

“What is it?” Castiel asked, accepting the cigarette Crowley offered him.

Crowley’s eyes darted around them, his face haunted and careful. “Have you seen Lilith?” he said, his voice barely audible over the wind that began to howl through the trees.  Castiel choked on the bitter inhale of tobacco, eyes watered as he cast them around for any sign of blonde hair, before shaking his head. “So, the rumors are true,” Crowley said, relaxing the tight line of his shoulders with a sigh.

“Rumors?”

“Some people are saying she’s been expelled, pending an investigation,” Crowley said, motioning with his cigarette, “wouldn’t have anything to do with you, would it?”

Castiel frowned, “I wasn’t going to let that email go unchecked. It’s not true.”

Crowley smiled ruefully, “No, I don’t suppose it is.”

Castiel bristled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that I saw you with Lose-chester at Meg’s party,” Crowley replied, his tone neutral and even. Castiel closed his eyes against the soaring nausea, took another deep drag, let the smoke calm him. He squared his shoulders, bracing himself.

“What are you doing?” Crowley laughed, shoving him lightly in the shoulder.

“Just preparing for the beating,” Castiel answered, knowing that whatever Crowley had seen of him and Dean that night, it would have been enough to uncover the truth.

“Whatever for, you daft twat?” Crowley protested around the filter of his cigarette.

Castiel’s eyes bugged, “Because…”

Crowley looked heaven-ward with a wry smile, “Oh, lord give me  _ strength _ . I beat on Winchester because I hate the twat, not because he’s… otherwise inclined. Also, if I don’t, it’s  _ my  _ arse that gets beat, so…”

Castiel’s breath, tinged with smoke, fell from between his lips, chapped from the cold, “So… you don’t-”

“No,” Crowley snapped, but his tone wasn’t unkind, “I don’t care what team you bat for. But, speaking of…” he trailed, his eyes darting all around again, “I’d watch yourself today.”

Castiel’s insides dropped to his feet, “Alastair?”

Crowley nodded seriously, “He’s out for blood.”

Castiel kept his reaction measured, his posture carefully relaxed, voice even. He couldn’t trust Crowley, hadn’t forgotten the beatings he’d lain on Dean, nor the threats he’d made against Castiel. It had never been clear whose side Crowley was truly on, and it was dangerous to assume. “He doesn’t think Lilith’s telling the truth, does he?”

Crowley shrugged, “If he does, he’s going to tear you apart ten ways from Sunday, if he doesn’t… he’s still going to tear you apart.” Castiel snorted derisively, even as Crowley’s face hardened. “I’m serious,” he warned.

“Okay, so why are you telling me? Surely, he’s gonna know you grassed,” Castiel said, stamping out his cigarette.

Crowley softened, rubbing his expression away with a hand, reddened by the cold, “I’m just… done being a party to this bullshit.”

Castiel pulled up short. Speaking of parties… “At Meg’s,” he hedged carefully, “why were you talking to Charlie?”

Crowley tapped the side of his nose, stubbed his cigarette out on the wall behind him and left without another word. In some ways, it was the only answer Castiel needed.

Dean was waiting at Castiel’s locker when he got there at the end of the day, his thumbs hooked into the straps of his backpack.

“Hey,” he greeted as Castiel swung open the door, not stopping it from almost hitting Dean directly in the face. His classes after lunch had been particularly brutal, and his mood had soured considerably. “Hurry up, man, I gotta get out of here,” Dean insisted. Castiel swung his locker door back to stare at Dean until he could see him squirm.

“Sorry. _ You  _ gotta get outta here,” Dean corrected with a hand plastered to the back of his neck, skin flushed red.  Castiel nodded, stuffing his books into his bag, pretending he couldn’t still feel eyes all over him. He noticed Dean bristle beside him. Slamming his locker door closed, Castiel spun to see a small crowd of people staring at him in horror.

He was sick to the back teeth of biting back his words to save face. “What?” he shouted, scattering them like a flock of pigeons on the breeze.

“Cas,” Dean said quietly, but Castiel was in no mood to be placated. He was suddenly seething. He burst out of the doors at the end of the corridor, not even waiting to see if Dean was behind him. He wanted blood. He had done a lot of shit he wasn’t proud of, sure, and there was a lot of punishment he rightly deserved. This though? This whole fucked up mess? It wasn’t clear what exactly he was paying for. Enough was enough.

Up ahead, was a figure he’d savagely hoped to see, leaning against the gate at the far end of the parking lot with Crowley. Castiel strode right up to him, could feel Dean trying to pull him back but it was useless. Alastair’s eyes found him, narrowing with a smirk as he squared his shoulders. And Castiel saw red. There was something so crystal clear about the string of decisions Castiel made next. He wasn’t going to wait for Alastair to strike. He wasn’t going to sit pretty, go quietly, that was never his style. Instead, Castiel barreled straight into Alastair with a hard shove to the chest that sent him stumbling backwards into the front gates.

“Heard you were looking for me,” Castiel snarled, throwing his whole weight behind the punch that had Alastair’s nose cracking beneath his knuckles. Dean was yelling, Castiel could just hear him over the white noise in his ears. He pinned Alastair to the ground, straddled him, throwing punch after punch against his face until he drew blood. There was a strange gurgling sound that erupted from Alastair’s throat, but Castiel didn’t care. Useless fingers scrabbled against the hand that wrapped, claw-like, around Alastair’s neck. Castiel loved the desperation in his eyes.

“Cas!” He was dragged off Alastair, delicate hands holding him in an iron grip. Dean was being held back by Crowley, writhing, yelling. Castiel swiveled, Jo’s eyes furious as they bore into his. “That’s enough,” she yelled, her jaw set tight. Charlie stood beside her, her eyes fixed solely on Alastair who lay groaning on the ground. “Get in the car,” Jo barked, expression leaving no room for argument.

Crowley shoved Dean away with both hands, before offering a hand to Alastair. Castiel chanced another glance back as he cradled his fists together at his chest; Alastair’s eyes were molten.

Jo watched him as he clambered into the back of the Gremlin, hissing as his weight fell on his hands. Everyone was silent as the doors closed. “That was really fucking stupid,” Jo sighed after a moment, “I hope you know that.”

When Castiel got home, stooped over the sink to wash the blood, Alastair’s and his own, from his knuckles, he stared at himself in the mirror. He watched as his eyes hardened, his jaw twitching where it had been set fast for so long. He massaged at the cut of it, right by his ear and looked at his knuckles, raw and swollen.

And he felt numb.

For the first time after a fight, he didn’t feel a thing. No rush, no elation, no regret.

Just nothing.

He stared at his reflection, diving right into his own eyes and vowed, barely above a whisper, that that was the last time he’d let that happen. That would be the last time he’d let his anger take the wheel. Jo was right; it was stupid. He hadn’t proven anything. Missouri was less than pleased when she got home that evening; looking sternly at him as she wrapped his knuckles in bandages she’d brought down to the living room. “Thought you’d grown out of this,” she murmured, giving his knuckles a little pat. Castiel hissed through the sting.

“I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head, “it’s just… Alastair-”

“Lilith’s squeeze?”

Castiel nodded.

“Listen, I get that you’re angry, you got every right to be,” Missouri said, taking his hand gently in both of hers, “but you gotta know, this way, there’s more harm than good.” Castiel headed upstairs, seeking respite from his clanging thoughts. He just needed to not think about Lilith and Alastair for a moment. Let his blood simmer and still.  Sam was tending to the seeds, two more of which had sprouted, their little green heads poking out from the soil. Sam waved him over, a grin splitting his face. Castiel touched his finger to them gently.

Dean lay on his stomach, tongue caught between his lips as he read from a textbook. Castiel settled himself on the floor and breathed in the quiet.

Castiel spent Tuesday morning keeping an eye out for Crowley and at lunch, another trained on the window facing the bleachers, just in case Alastair lurked somewhere in the shadows. Castiel was afraid of Alastair, sure, but it was more than that. He was afraid of what he himself might do. Once school was out, and he and Dean walked out the doors and past the gate, Castiel was  more worried that he  _ hadn’t  _ seen Alastair, that Crowley was nowhere to be found. Not waiting, as they did, by the gate. No cloud of cigarette smoke, no lingering glares singeing at the back of his neck.

Dean broke off, as he usually did to pick up Sam, but Castiel was desperate to get back into the garden. He hadn’t been since the kiss… mostly because of the snow, and John of course. It was a sudden pull to respite that Castiel heeded without hesitation. When Castiel set eyes on the garden however, he knew instantly that something was wrong. Something had been there; like one knows where a creature has walked the forest, or that creeping sensation that tingles the back of the neck upon entering a place touched by tragedy. The fence hung limp, a wilting bloom. It had been torn apart, forced and folded in on itself. Castiel steeled himself and pushed through, gasping at the sight that greeted him.

The garden lay in ruin, as if he and the Winchesters had never touched it at all. It hurt, a physical sensation somewhere deep in the recesses of his chest; the planters he’d built turned upside down and smashed; soil spilling like blood across the ground, littered with cigarette butts and trash, smashed glass and rotting food. Flies buzzed incessantly about his head as Castiel dove deeper into the chaos. The trellis that he had built had been torn from the fence, its broken ribs scattered like driftwood on the shore. Their faithful wheelbarrow was smeared with dog shit, and Castiel gagged at the overwhelming odor.

The shed remained intact, if you chose to ignore the smashed window, but Castiel felt rage boil in his bones as he caught sight of the side.

There, written in a hand he didn’t know, in a language he did, in blood-red paint, the words “faggots burn in hell” wounded the wood. Other such profanities were merely filigree for all Castiel paid attention. The words in red seared themselves to him, cauterized and stung his skin. Paranoia raced through Castiel. Surely nobody knew what had happened between him and Dean. Surely nobody had seen them, surely Dean hadn’t told anyone? Panic spiked. Crowley had seen them. Crowley knew.

His skin prickled as if a storm was brewing, turning just in time to see Dean’s mortified expression. His grave eyes danced across the destruction, and Castiel longed, in that moment, for them to settle on him, in the vague hope that they’d soften, and that evergreen would flood with darkness like they had just before he’d bolted, kissed and perplexed. Or how they looked at Meg’s party, soft and full of affection. How they looked last night. Instead, Dean skipped him entirely, and when they landed on the shed’s new decoration, they filled with fury.

“You told someone?” Dean ground, his eyes stubbornly avoiding Castiel.

“No. Did you?” Castiel asked pointlessly, a needless jab, a childish retort. Dean’s eyes did snap towards him then, but instead of softening, they hardened with the clench of his jaw. “Dean, please, you know I wouldn’t. Who do we know who would do something like this? Think.” Dean scrunched his eyes shut, shuddering at the rotting, horrific smells all around them. “You know this is Alastair,” Castiel continued, reaching out tentatively, his hand closing around Dean’s forearm to feel the shaking beneath.

“I’m gonna kill ‘im,” Dean ground, tightly coiled, ready to burst. Castiel locked eyes with Dean, trying to soothe without having to say anything, because everything he was thinking felt stupid, redundant. He moved a little closer. He longed to pull Dean close, crush him against his chest, kiss him again…

He didn’t.

“Where’s Sam?” Castiel asked, in an effort to break the tension in Dean’s body.

Dean waved in the vague direction of Bobby’s house, not even stopping to look. He rounded the shed, trailing his hand across the words as if he could erase them, and the damage they’d caused. He circled the garden, palm plastered against his mouth, as if holding back a thousand words. Castiel waited, watching him until an ocean was pressing against the back of his teeth; held it in until the dam finally broke.

“I really didn’t tell anyone,” he blurted. Dean had probably noticed that Castiel hadn’t spoken to anyone but him and Charlie, Jo and Sam in months, hadn’t wanted to. Dean frowned, looking up at him from where he crouched over a broken planter box. “Alastair and… I didn’t…” Castiel pointed at the shed to help illustrate his point as his brain began to short-circuit. He was never particularly good at this sort of thing. If he’d told himself back in September that he’d be trying to explain himself to Dean, that he cared about what Dean thought of him… that he’d kissed Dean and loved every second of it…

_ I wanna kiss you again _ .

Dean’s eyes fell as he pulled his lips tight together.  “I know, Cas.”

Castiel nodded, “Okay.”

Dean’s eyes lingered on him, so long Castiel began to squirm.

“Crowley saw us, at Meg’s party,” Castiel said, before the tension choked him.

Dean’s eyes narrowed, “All we did was talk.”

_ Shit _ . Castiel backpedaled furiously, “Crowley sees a mountain in a molehill, he must’ve... “

Dean’s frown deepened, “So, you reckon he’s behind this, too?”

Castiel shrugged. From his talk with Crowley that afternoon, it didn’t seem like something Crowley would have done. But, then again, when did Crowley ever do something he expected? He could’ve easily had a hand in this. The air between them was no less tense than it had been before, and Castiel stared that elephant straight in the eyes and told it ‘no way am I mentioning you. No fucking way.’ Dean wiped his hands on his jeans with a heavy sigh before standing and levelling Castiel with an even stare. “You gonna say it, or am I?”

Castiel narrowed his eyes, “Say what?” He bluffed. Inside ran the loop of his prayer _ , yes, please you, don’t make me say it, please. _

“What… what happened… is happening between us, that… it can’t. I’m not-” Dean sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck. “It ain’t safe. I mean, if this is what we get…,” Dean trailed off, gesturing wildly at the chaos around them, the bright red ‘for Lilith’ covering the shed’s sunny yellow door.

“I don’t want this followin’ me, followin’ Sam. Dad  _ just died _ . I don’t need it, Sam don’t need it. We put it to bed. Agreed?”

Castiel felt as if any breathable air had completely left his lungs, left the atmosphere around him.

_ Oh. _

For some reason he’d imagined Dean confessing his attraction, he’d pictured Dean’s blushing cheeks as he fumbled for the right words to say. Castiel knew; the feeling was indescribable, impossible to understand. Castiel would’ve leapt to kiss that embarrassment away, littered Dean’s face with them, covered every freckle. He would’ve done anything. Instead they stood and stared at one another. Dean’s expression was strained, but it was too much to hope that he hadn’t meant any of it.

“Agreed?” Dean asked again, his voice a little stronger.

Castiel laughed, but it was all brittle, “Agreed.” He took one more lingering look at Dean, took in the stubborn set of his jaw, his eyes, flat and tired before turning on his heel and walking out without another word.


	22. Hydrangea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Tracks for Chapter:  
> Autumn Tree - Milo Greene  
> Looking Too Closely - Fink  
> Ambre - Nils Frahm  
> What Happens Next - Clem Leek  
> Golden October - All The Luck In The World

Dean kicked at the fence, frustrated, the metal clanging, ringing across the cold expanse of frozen soil. He hadn’t wanted any of this to happen. He didn’t know  _ what _ he wanted, but he sure as hell knew it wasn’t this. Not everything they had worked so hard to rebuild to be dragged in and used against him, not to question everything he thought he knew about himself. He pushed Cas away, when all he’d wanted was to pull him closer. And if he was really honest with himself, despite obsessively swallowing it down, Dean’s mind always reminded him of two formative moments. Two kisses. And how differently he’d felt.

It didn’t matter now though, did it? He’d pushed Cas out of that picture. It was the right thing to do. For Sam. For all of them. It was better this way. No matter how much his heart ached when he thought about it. About never having Cas close like that, about those lips on his. He pushed last night, suddenly feeling like a week ago, far out of his mind. It hurt too much, to think that he  c ould’ve taken something he wanted, may have wanted for a long time. Cas would’ve accepted it, too. Dean wasn’t a total idiot; he knew that look, the one almost permanently plastered on Cas’s face. He’d never get that chance again.

Bobby’s footsteps crunched against the ground as he approached with deliberate steps.

“Dean,” he cried, “what the hell happened?” Bobby took it in, his eyes darting madly, grey-bristled lips tightening. For a moment there wasn’t a sound, other than Bobby’s shoes on the frozen soil.

“Bobby…”

“This have somethin’ to do with you boys?” Bobby asked, quiet and serious. Dean’s hand rubbed against the back of his neck as he nodded.  “And you’re…” Bobby trailed off, clearly uncomfortable. Dean followed his eyes to the slurs cast on the shed walls and baulked. Dean didn’t really know the answer to that.

“No, no, no, Bobby. No. Whoever did this… just…”

“It’s okay if you are,” Bobby placated, removing his hat to rub at his hair, “it’s just, this is serious, is all. If it’s a hate crime, it’s important to report it.”

Dean bit his lip. He knew that Alastair had his suspicions of him, for whatever reason. And it was definitely Alastair who had done this. ‘For Lilith’, seriously?

“I know who did this,” Dean said.

“That’s good,” Bobby said with a heavy hand to Dean’s shoulder, “And if… you need to-”

“It’s fine, Bobby, this isn’t… it’s not true, I’m not-” _ I mean, I might be. _

“Cas neither?” Dean shrugged, each lie unnecessary and bitter-tasting on his tongue, “I don’t know.” He didn’t pause long enough to wonder why it was he was lying to Bobby. Bobby nodded slowly, “Alright, you get inside, I’m callin’ the police.”

The cops came soon after, since nothing much ever happened in Janesville past a drunken disorderly. The woman who stepped out of the car was small, blonde, with a hard face.

“Officer Diane Ballard,” she said as Dean opened the door, “responding to a call from Robert Singer.” Bobby and Dean took her to the garden and watched as she strode about it slowly, snapping pictures as she went. She beckoned them over, where she stood by the little angel statue, hidden in the hedge. She took out a notepad and clicked her pen. “So, just a few questions,” she smiled grimly, “when did this happen?”

Dean shrugged, “I haven’t been here in a few days.”

Bobby stepped in, “It must’ve been last night some time. It wasn’t like this yesterday.”

“You didn’t see anything, Mr. Singer?”

Bobby reddened a little, “No, I… I was watching Tori and Dean all night.”

“No kidding,” Officer Ballard smiled, “That Spelling’s quite a talent. You didn’t hear anything?”

“I had the volume way up, hard of hearin’,” Bobby grumbled, shuffling his feet.

“Well, either of you have any idea who might have done something like this?”

Dean bit his lip, hesitated for a moment. What if he wasn’t right about this? What if there were the smallest chance that Alastair hadn’t done this?  “I think I know,” he said finally, Officer Ballard’s attentive eyes making him squirm, “Alastair-”

“Heyerdahl’s boy?” Diane frowned, “Always took him for a respectable, polite young man.”

Dean nodded, “He has it in for me and Cas-”

“Cas?”

“Castiel… he moved here not long ago,” Dean explained, as Diane’s pen scratched furiously across the page, “He lives with me. Alastair was… sort of a friend of his. Last summer.”

“Alright, well thank you, Dean. Mr. Singer. I’ll be in touch for your statements.”

Dean and Bobby watched her clamber back into the driver’s seat and leave them amongst the foul-smelling chaos.

Bobby clapped Dean’s shoulder, “It’s gonna be okay, son.”

Dean hoped to god he was right. Bobby’s hand tightened in encouragement, as he sighed, “Well, since I got ya, you wanna see what I’ve done to the ol’ girl so far? Help me out a little?”

Dean relaxed, grateful for the distraction, following Bobby eagerly back to the garage. And as he worked the driver’s side door, almost bent in two, from its hinges, there was blissfully little room in his head for thoughts of Castiel. Dean dove into the diversion head first, and he and Bobby worked well into the night. Dean just made curfew, but his heart ached a little less as he collapsed into bed that night.

Dean awoke with a start, his dream fading like smoke on a breeze, but leaving him with a licking of flames against his limbs. He shuddered and lay quiet, staring at the ceiling. His eyes felt gritty and sore, like he hadn’t slept. Like he’d blinked and lost ten hours. He rolled over, reaching for his phone. A few messages from Charlie to tell him all about her latest LARPing session; she was queen now apparently. Partly his doing of course, but he congratulated her all the same. Jo had taken to sending him jokes almost daily. She said it was to pass the time during the quiet hours at the Roadhouse, but Dean wondered if it wasn’t a particularly _ Jo _ way of showing him she was there for him. He was endlessly grateful. That morning’s joke read:

_ Why did the scarecrow win an award? _

_ Because he was outstanding in his field! _

He chanced a smile, grimacing as it tugged uncomfortably against his features. As he stared ahead of him, willing himself awake, his only thoughts were of Baby, sitting in Bobby’s garage. It was the only thing that gave him any respite, any relief. And, if how he felt now was any indication, Dean needed that bad. He hoped Bobby was awake as he rolled his lethargic body out of bed, rubbing furiously at his eyes before stretching across the room to nudge at Sam, curled tight in his duvet.

“Hey,” he murmured at Sam’s muffled grumble, “you gonna come with me to Bobby’s?”

“Why?” Sam groaned, shuffling beneath the covers.

“He misses you,” Dean said, “You ain’t seen him in a while. And I wanna work on the car.”

“Do we have cinnamon toast crunch?” Sam asked, rolling over and rubbing at his eyes. They looked just as red as Dean’s felt.

“You want me to fix you a bowl?” Dean said, his smile coming just a touch easier.

Sam nodded, snorting as Dean stood and ruffled his hair.

“Needs a cut, bud,” Dean said as he left.

Dean snuck past the lounge as he went. Though the hallway door was closed, there was nothing to be done about the archway that opened the wall between kitchen and lounge. He stood in that very spot and watched the shape of Cas's body, rising and falling slowly with sleep.

Whatever hurt that Cas had caused, whatever grievance with that damned kiss… it had blown away like so many grains of sand on top a dune. Faded and forgotten. All he could remember was how tightly Cas had held him the night his father passed. Dean had gone to Castiel for comfort, multiple times, hadn’t he? He’d still sought out those arms, that smell, the one like a hot summer’s day just after it’s rained. There weren’t many excuses that could rub that away. Dean couldn’t ever remember feeling like this about anybody else. He’d had a few run-ins with romance back in Lawrence. There was Cassie with her wild curls and dark skin, and lips that had tasted of honey. And Lisa; wide brown eyes and inexhaustible patience as Dean struggled with his feelings.

He’d at least liked them, more than friends, more than he liked arbitrary things, like burgers or Led Zeppelin. Was it love? How the hell was he to know?

They’d burnt out. Whether it was love or no, they’d fizzled. He’d lost interest. Or faith in himself, whatever. With Cas… it grew. It swelled and morphed and expanded to the very edges of his vision until everything was that impossible shade of blue. And, Cas wasn’t like he was before. He’d changed. Or he’d grown. Or maybe Dean had stopped pretending. Touching the edges of those feelings felt like grazing his fingers along the impossible, the edges of the universe; it was beautiful and unimaginable, and it got scary quick. Dean had called it off with Cas, and Cas had agreed to it. That was that. But, damn it, a huge part of Dean was consumed by regret.

Dean tore himself away from that quiet room and those racing thoughts, and made up some cereal for Sammy, who came down shortly after, clutching dad’s journal against his chest, the back of his hair sticking up in all directions.

“Sit,” Dean said, pushing the bowl across the island, “eat.”

Frost clung to the tips of the grass swaying in Bobby’s front lawn. He answered the door, yawning and looking as though he might be in his pajamas, though his hat was still pressed firmly on his head. Dean and Sam were ushered inside and ferried almost immediately to the garage. The smell of gasoline and metal hit Dean immediately, as it always did. The Impala sat where she had for the past few weeks, beaten and bruised, but she was on the mend. There was a new door, bright blue, in place of the busted one Dean had removed. He was glad Sam saw her like this and not as she was; the graphic depiction of John’s final moments.

Bobby had raised her on a couple of rusty jacks, and Dean instantly noticed her wheels were missing. He directed a frown towards Bobby, who understood immediately what the look meant.

“Took ‘em off,” Bobby replied, motioning to the pile of tires discarded by the door, “John got slack I guess. They were worn to shit.” Sam made his way over, trailing his too-big hands over their edges. Dean reached out a placating hand. Sam’s answering smile was sharp and quick to fall. “Thought we, uh, could plant somethin’ in ‘em,” Bobby said gruffly, reaching for a mug of coffee balanced precariously on the Impala’s hood.

Dean started, the surprise of the gesture a pleasant one, one that lit a warmth spreading through his limbs. Sam perked up, too.

“Can we take them over now?” Sam asked, “What can we put in them?”

“Think I got some old potatoes we can stick in,” Bobby shrugged.

Sam bit his lip, “Do you think we could save one for a swing?”

Bobby’s eyes widened, “I think I got a spare in better shape, but, yeah, we can do that.”

Sam’s smile grew. Dean’s cheeks began to ache.

Bobby grabbed some paints and brushes and Dean went to fetch the wheelbarrow, since washed (with no small amount of gagging on his part) from the allotment, helping Sam to load in the tires and old potatoes. If Dean dragged his fingers reverently over the old rubber, nobody noticed. The ache in his heart was still so full, so ripe, but he swallowed it down, smiled for Sammy.

Bobby entered through the gate and held it open for the boys and the ‘barrow. Dean tried not to wince at Sam’s expression as he set eyes on the shed. He and Cas had managed to clear up all the gunk over the week. Dean had kept Sam away from much of the destruction, though he made sure Sam knew about it. Dean had hoped he wouldn’t see any of Alastair’s touch on it, but the paint he used on the shed hadn’t relented, no matter how hard he and Cas scrubbed at it.

He forced his voice sunny as he could manage. “Where do you want ‘em, Sammy?” Dean asked, easing his heavy burden down with a whoosh of breath.

Sam tore his eyes slowly from the ruined shed, before pointing to a shaded area just under the tree, near the front of the garden. “Let’s put them there,” he said, his expression a little guarded, like he wasn’t sure if feeling content was allowed. Dean knew that feeling . Together they hoisted the tires off the ‘barrow, lining them up in the dappled sunlight peeking through the clouds. Dean left with a pat to Sam’s shoulder, heading over to the shed where Bobby stood frowning at half-full containers of brightly colored paints.

“You okay, Bobby?” he asked, ducking into the shed to grab a bag of soil. Bobby’s expression hadn’t changed when Dean reappeared.

Dean studied the paints more closely, and he suddenly knew why this was difficult. The pinks and oranges, the yellows. Half-full. Already used once before.

“Sammy,” Dean called, “here, take this.” Sam ran over to grab the bag of soil, almost as large as he was, and he dragged it over to the tires.  Dean stood with Bobby, quiet for a moment for want of something useful to say.

“You need a hand?” Bobby didn’t react at first, just stood, frozen in time, his eyes glassy and distant.

“Bobby,” Dean said, shaking him gently by the shoulder.

Dean stooped down to pick up a brush, as Bobby’s eyes dragged over his face, “Where should we start?”

Bobby seemed unable to answer him, and Dean smiled sadly, knowing that feeling, too. He picked up the yellow, bending to catch Bobby’s eyeline again, “I’m gonna make a start on the door.”

Once they’d started painting, Bobby slowly seemed to return to his body, his eyes slowly brightening once more, his shoulders losing some of their tension.

“Where’s your boy, Cas, today?” he asked.

Dean felt his cheeks heat. Imagining Cas as ‘his boy’... _ his. _ He shook himself with a derisive snort, “He’s not my boy, Bobby.”

“Coulda fooled me,” Bobby replied quietly.

Dean remembered the peace of Cas asleep that morning and he smiled before he could tell himself not to, “I don’t know where he is. Maybe he’s still sleepin’.”

“Ah,” Bobby chuckled hoarsely, “speak of the devil.”

Cas ducked through the fence, wrapped in an old hoodie of Dean’s, the red color so faded it was almost pink. The color had run in the wash, Dean remembered. He’d thought tackling the laundry while his dad slept off the best part of the day would be a good thing to do, in between feeding himself and Sam. The hoodie stained his, Sammy’s and John’s whites a baby pink. John had been furious, and while Dean made sure to separate colors and whites after that, laundry felt different. Tinged with anxiety. There were just so many places he could go wrong.

Still, the hoodie was a good look on Cas, baggy around his chest and stomach where Dean was a little thicker, the sleeves hung just over his hands. His dark hair was unruly as ever, bunching together at the top to launch every which way. His smile was hesitant as his tired eyes met Dean’s. Dean smiled back quickly, as if to reassure him that while he’d called off whatever had started, they were still friends.

Cas’s face turned awkward, self-conscious, before he turned to Sam, helping him load the soil into the tires.

Once the first coat of paint on the shed was administered, Dean followed Bobby back to the garage, where they began affixing the new tires to the axel. Bobby insisted he be the one to hand Dean the tools this time. Dean’s hands were quickly covered in oil and dirt, and he reveled in the feeling of it gathering around his nails, seeping into the rivets in his palms.

“So… everythin’ good between you boys?” Bobby said, clearing his throat.

Dean frowned. He was pretty sure neither he nor Cas were entirely clear where they stood. They’d dropped it, and so far as he knew, they were both happy with that arrangement. Dean had brushed it under the carpet while Cas held up the corner for him. It was for the better. It was.

“I think so,” he shrugged. Bobby didn’t answer for a moment or two, and when Dean raised his head he was shifting from foot to foot. “What?”

Bobby sighed, “I just… if it’s about the… the stuff on the shed-”

“It’s not,” Dean grumbled, tightening the nut a little rougher.

“But,” Bobby reasoned, “if it was, I want you to know… it ain’t nothin’ to hide.”

Dean set the wrench down too heavily, reveling in the clang of it. Despite the indignance he felt, Dean couldn’t muster any sort of argument.

“I know your daddy wanted different for you… but, Dean… he ain’t here no more,” Bobby said, his voice softer, kinder than Dean had ever heard it. It hurt to listen to. Dean waved him off, silently begged him to stop.

“I’m just sayin’,” Bobby sighed, an air of finality about it, “you’re free to be who you want now. And that’s the last I’ll say, scout’s honor,” he added quickly, hands aloft in surrender. Dean rolled his eyes, letting the monotony of his task keep him from thinking too hard about the implications of his freedom. Dean was exactly who he wanted to be. Wasn’t he?

Castiel wrenched his eyes from Dean, the delicious stretch of him as he reached for the top of the shed door with his paintbrush, the hem of his sweater rising with his arms to reveal the barest slither of tanned skin. It did no good to torture himself that way, Castiel knew, but part of him couldn’t help it. He was grateful for Sam’s presence, a welcome distraction. He knelt beside four tires, watching Sam shift fistfuls of soil in at a time.

“What’re you doing?” he asked, lifting the bag of soil to pour into another tire.

“Planting potatoes,” Sam said, soil smudged down the length of his nose. He motioned to Castiel’s strategy with a grateful smile, “Thanks, it was too heavy for me.”

“Where did the tires come from?”

“Dad’s car,” Sam mumbled, stuffing the soil down, spreading it to the very edges of the worn rubber.

Castiel considered Sam closely. He’d seen the brunt of Dean’s grief, up-close and personal, but with Sam, it was harder to tell he was hurting. He bore it better, perhaps. Or was just better at disguising it.

“How’re you doing, Sam?” he hedged, unsure if it was the right question. But, Sam simply shrugged.

“Doin’ okay, I guess. I miss him, but school’s helping.”

Castiel enquired about Sam’s science fair project, tried to lighten the mood. Sam brightened at the mention of it; the fair was fast approaching, and the seedlings were responding well to his experiments. He’d managed to get at least half of them to sprout.

Once the tires were filled, Sam bent to open the sack of old potatoes, having grown their roots, long and white in the darkness of Bobby’s forgotten cupboard. Castiel went to the house to grab a knife from the kitchen and cut them up into quarters as per Sam’s strict instructions, back on his knees on the frozen ground. He dried them as best he could with his -  _ Dean’s  _ \- hoodie. It still smelled of him, just a little.

Sam dug the holes, and Castiel pressed the potato quarters in, eye-side up. It was therapeutic, growing something new out of something old. Something forgotten. Something presumed rotten, written-off.

“You should talk to Dean,” Sam said suddenly, out of nowhere. Castiel stared at him, slack-jawed.

“I talk to Dean.”

Sam shook his head, “Not like you used to. Something’s happened between you.” Castiel sighed as he let go of the pretense. Sam knew his brother too well, it was harder to lie. “Fix it,” Sam said then, his voice as serious as the eyes he turned upon his face, “Dean is good. I know he’s stubborn, and an ass sometimes, and he doesn’t really know what he wants but… he cares about you.”

Castiel’s eyes went wide.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Sam huffed, pressing the potatoes in with his thumbs, “you know it as well as I do.”

Did he know that? Castiel thought back on all those things he’d pushed from his mind, the moments he’d forbidden himself from thinking about, the glances, the subtle ways Dean showed a softer side to himself. The bigger moments, too… the kiss, Meg’s party. The night John died, the strength of Dean’s hands wrapped around Castiel just as tightly as Castiel’s were wrapped around him. Maybe Sam was right. And while he and Dean would never share the sort of relationship he ached for, having Dean’s friendship was enough. It was. Castiel would recover. He’d never stop caring for Dean, he knew that much.

Sam shrugged, his eyes swimming with his plea, “Just, do us all a favor.”

Castiel pressed in the last quarter of potato and covered it with fresh dirt, avoiding the look he knew was in Sam’s eyes right now, imploring him to give up something he wasn’t sure he was ready to let go of just yet.

“I’ll talk to Dean,” he said finally, “I’ll fix it.”

As the last tire was filled, the dirt pressed and wet from the beat-up old watering can, a cop car pulled up on at the sidewalk. Officer Ballard’s hair was pulled into a low bun which rested at the nape of her neck. She smiled at Castiel and Sam as she crouched through the entrance.

“Looks a damn sight better than last time,” she smiled, turning her attention to Castiel, her eyes laser focused and unnerving, “You must be the ‘Cas’ I’ve heard so much about. I’m Officer Diane Ballard.” She thrust a hand towards him and he shook it carefully. Despite his last run in with the law was almost six months behind him, Castiel still felt nervous around cops. Mercifully, it was a short handshake, and her eyes landed on Sam instead.

“Is Dean around?”

Sam shot a worried glance towards Castiel, who aimed for a reassuring smile. Sam swallowed, his voice breaking on his nerves, “I think he’s in the garage with Bobby.”

Diane’s expression was as gentle as her voice, “Would you be a dear and fetch him for me?” Castiel gave Sam a little push towards the house when it seemed he was unable to move of his own accord. Diane crouched by the tires, giving the soil a little press with her neatly painted fingernail, bright red. “What’s in here?” she enquired innocently.

Castiel tried his hardest to sound casual, but there was a hard edge to his voice when he answered, “Potatoes.”

“You boys are awful clever, taking this on. What’s the big plan?”

Castiel looked around the garden, twice saved from damnation by their hands. He was sure Sam had some sort of plan in mind, but Castiel only wanted to see it bloom again.

Dean arrived then, clung to by an anxiety-stricken Sam. Diane rose to her feet, whipping out her notepad and clicking open her pen. Castiel swallowed heavily, tried his best to regulate his breathing.

“How’s it going, Dean?” Diane asked in a way that invited no response, “Do you mind if we go through a few more questions? With Cas?”

“Dean?” Sam said, his voice edged with concern, “What’s this about?”

“It’s okay, buddy,” Diane replied, bending down to catch his eyeline, “Dean isn’t in trouble, he just has some answers that I need to catch the bad guy.”

Sam looked back to Dean, swallowed before moving just a little closer to him, and Dean gave his shoulder a squeeze. Sam had started to hide behind Dean like a shield these past few weeks, and it ate at Castiel that so much had robbed Sam of his carefree nature. Alastair the least of them.

“Have you got somewhere safe you can go?” Diane asked Sam as she stood, straightening her jacket.

Dean’s hand on Sam’s shoulder tightened, but Sam spoke ahead of him, “Dean can say whatever he has to say in front of me.”

Diane frowned, “Are you sure?” Dean nodded, but Castiel could see a tiny lapse in his confidence. Diane chewed at the end of her pen before raising serious eyes to Dean. “So, last we spoke, you were pretty certain that Alastair Heyerdahl was behind the vandalism. I’ve since spoken with Alastair, who claims you guys are good friends. You were at the same party on Saturday night?”

Dean’s incredulity read clear on his features, and Castiel’s expression mirrored it exactly, rendered almost speechless by Alastair’s daring. Good friends? Was he fucking serious?

“We were at the same party on Saturday, yeah,” Dean answered, “Meg Masters’s but… he and I, we’re not friends. At all. The guy’s had it in for me since I moved here.”

Sam’s voice was steady as he continued, “Dean’s been in a lot of fights at school. Cas, too.”

“And those fights were always with Alastair?” Diane asked.

“And his friend, Crowley,” Castiel added. Diane turned to him with a penetrating stare. Castiel took a deep breath.

“Alastair said he even put you up for a while, is that true?”

Castiel winced, “Yes.”

“So, what happened there?”

Castiel glanced at the brothers, Sam’s eyebrows knitting so close they almost touched. A lot of this must have been news to him.

“I was homeless, before I came here.,” Castiel hesitated, “Missouri Moseley, she was my attorney-”

“What for?” Diane cut in, pen stilling against the page.

“I was with my brother,” he said carefully, “when he stole a car. He’s awaiting trial right now.”

“Why were you homeless though?”

Castiel recounted his story, from the theft to finding his mother gone, choosing his words, guarding his expression. Every cop he’d ever met had a startling propensity to read complexities in the simplest of things. He watched Sam’s face soften into one of barely restrained sorrow. While the pity irritated him, it was comforting to know Sam cared.

“And so, Dean, you drove Castiel to move in with Alastair?”

Dean stuttered, clearly affronted by the accusation, “I didn’t know they’d even met. Cas and I weren’t… on speaking terms then.”

Diane nodded, and as her pen scratched out her notes, Castiel tried to swallow down the reasons why he was no longer living with Alastair. Because those reasons could land him in even more trouble. Diane asked the dreaded question, and Castiel steeled himself. “I came to Dean’s rescue at school one afternoon, I didn’t understand why Alastair kept singling him out. It pissed him off, to be shown up like that. That night he demanded I pay him $1,000 in rent, when he knew I had nothing. I had no choice but to leave-”

“He camped out here, did’t’ya, Cas,” Dean supplied, “I found him a few days later.”

“Camped?” Diane frowned, “So you didn’t have $1,000, but you had a tent?”

Castiel tampered down the glare he desperately wanted to shoot at Dean. He’d done an excellent job of painting Castiel into the exact corner he’d tried to avoid.

“No, I...” he relented, “I borrowed a sleeping bag, some food… I would’ve paid for it in time,” he added quickly, even though he had never had such an intention, “Alastair stole it all back anyway.”

“He knew about the theft?”

“Took it outta Cas's ass about a week later,” Dean chuckled. Sam’s face, set in a grim expression stopped Dean’s laughter like water to a flame. Diane’s expression remained unchanged, as she turned her attention back to Castiel.

“Alastair also claimed that you slept with his girlfriend, Lilith Boecher, there was some compelling evidence there,” Diane continued.

Castiel swallowed an indignant cry. Dean was the first to speak, “The pictures are fake. Lilith… she’s had it out for Cas for just as long.”

“Any reason? Seems like Cas here is stepping on a lot of toes.”

Castiel spluttered, “Maybe so, but Lilith is mad at me because I rejected her, nothing more.”

He caught Dean’s eye, the look charged and electric.

“There’s texts,” Dean blurted, finally breaking the contact, “he’s been getting them for months.”

Diane was beginning to resemble a spectator at a tennis match as she whirled from Dean back to Castiel, “What is the nature of these texts?”

“She stalked me,” Castiel answered evenly, “at first I thought it had was Alastair, but… we know now it was Lilith.”

“How do you know?” Diane started, her eyes widening.

Castiel stopped short, and where he slackened, Dean picked up the thread, “Our friend, Charlie Bradbury, she found out. She didn’t want to be mentioned in the case, but she’s gathered a lot of evidence. If you need to talk to her, I’m sure she’d be…”

“Charlie Bradbury, thank you, I’ll look into that. So, those photos. Alastair claims they were taken on the night of the party. Where were you, Cas, if not in bed with Lilith?”

Castiel felt himself blush, “I was with Dean. In Meg’s garden. He’d had a lot to drink, I was taking care of him. I took him home with Charlie and Jo Harvelle at about two in the morning.”

“Dean seems like a capable guy,” Diane smiled, “why the mother hen act?”

“His…” Cas's eyes flickered over to Dean and Sam, “dad had passed away a few weeks before. It was the first time he’d been out since. I… wanted to make sure he was okay.”

Diane nodded apologetically, scribbling some more in her notepad, “Did you see Lilith Boecher at this party?”

Cas swallowed with a click, his eyes darkening, “Yes. She came onto me, and I got out of there as quick as I could.”

Diane glanced to Sam before her next question, “So, you didn’t engage in sexual intercourse with Miss. Boecher?”

“No,” Cas answered calmly, “I didn’t.”

Diane nodded, “Tests are being completed as we speak regarding the alleged-rape.”

“Good,” Cas nodded, “do you have any other questions?”

She looked to her notebook and back to each of them in turn, “That’ll be all for now, thank you, boys.”  

“Thank you,” Dean replied, shepherding Sam to the tear in the fence. Castiel stayed to shake Diane’s hand once more, a little firmer this time.

Officer Ballard had written at least twenty pages of notes from his and Dean’s accounts and she looked satisfied as she skimmed through each of them, finally clicking her pen shut. She smiled warmly at Castiel, and it changed her entire face. Castiel found himself smiling back as she stuffed her notebook back into her breast pocket.  

“I just want you to know,” she said, “this was, no doubt, a hate crime. If everything you’ve told me is true, Mr. Heyerdahl and Miss. Boecher are in real hot water.”

Castiel nodded, knowing that, aside from Alastair’s beliefs, this whole thing came from a place of pure hatred of Castiel and Dean, and everything they were.

“I hope you got everything you needed,” he said as he accompanied Diane through the fence and back to her car.

“I should think so, thank you again for your cooperation.”

“Not a problem,” Castiel replied, holding the driver’s door open for her.

She nodded, slipping behind the wheel, “I’ll be in touch.”

The blackbird flew above the swaying branches, singing joyfully as it bobbed lazily on the breeze. Castiel watched it as it landed atop the fence and felt, for the first time in a week, a warm calm settle over him. He sought out Dean and Sam, heart stuttering as green eyes burned into his, even over the distance between them. Castiel inwardly cursed his lack of courage. He should’ve said to hell with Dean’s plan to call things off… if there even was a ‘thing’ to begin with. Castiel knew, even if Dean didn’t, that Dean wanted to kiss him again. That Dean, somewhere in some unacknowledged corner of himself, wanted this. Maybe as much as Castiel. And for whatever reason Dean was denying the both of them.

God, he should have said something.

He ran to catch up to Dean and Sam and they walked home through the pools of light from newly lit street lamps.

Castiel was happy to let Sam take the lead on brunt of the conversation over dinner that night. He’d found it hard to talk about much else but what had happened over the last week. His brain had been turning over possibilities, outcomes, hashing and rehashing everything that had happened between him and Alastair. Not exactly dinner-table conversation. So, he let Sam natter animatedly about the science fair, which he was almost certain his dormant seeds would win for him. The presentation was at the end of the week.

Missouri disappeared into her office while Dean and Castiel washed up. Sam went to check on his project. The kitchen suddenly felt ten times smaller as Castiel’s fingers reached for Dean’s with each sudsy plate he passed to rinse and dry.

“Cas,” Dean said, his voice so loud in their closeness, “I wanted to apologize for Meg’s, I-”

“There’s nothing to apologise for, Dean,” Castiel lied easily, pulling the plug in the sink and leaning back against it as he dried his hands.

“There isn’t?” Dean frowned at his feet.

“We agreed we’d leave it,” Castiel said as his heart began to ache, “because whatever happened, it was dumb, and it shouldn’t have happened.”

_ I wanna kiss you again. _

Dean nodded absently, a quick smile gracing his lips, “You’re right. So long as I wasn’t a dick?”

“No more than usual,” Castiel smiled with a shrug. Dean chuckled, shoving at his shoulder.

“So, we’re good?” Dean said, his eyes dancing over Castiel’s face. They left goosebumps in their wake and Castiel had to close his eyes against the shudder.

“We’re good,” he said.


	23. Syringa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Tracks for Chapter:  
> 1234 - Feist  
> Gamble For A Rose - King Charles  
> Magic Tree - Ruu Campbell  
> The Middle Park - Clem Leek  
> The Low hum - Laura Cortese & The Dance Cards

The Marshall Middle School gym was buzzing with Sam’s classmates and their families, circling from one project to another. The sound in the room was deafening, echoes melding into one overwhelming cacophony. Sam lead them to his booth, with the poster boards he’d spent the last week making flanking either side of his table. His diligently-nursed seeds sprouted, green and healthy. Dean touched his fingers to the leaves, bobbing gently beneath his touch. Dean was so proud of him . Sam’s research on seed dormancy had taken him months; he’d tried every method, the tools for which he also displayed on his table. Nobody could argue he’d worked his damn ass off.

“You don’t have to hang around here,” Sam said, hands pulling flustered at the seam of his white button-up, rented for the occasion.

Missouri smiled, waving Dean and Cas away, “I’ll stay, you boys go explore.”

Dean looked to Cas with a shrug and together they took a lap of the room.

Cas looked good tonight, scrubbed up well. His hair was as tame as it was ever going to get and pushed back from his face. He’d shaved, cheeks smooth and tempting Dean’s fingers. He wore a buttoned shirt, too in dark blue, tucked into the front of black jeans. Dean almost wished he’d done the buttons up all the way, because the sneak-peek of his clavicle was enough to set Dean blushing furiously. Calling this whole thing off had done absolute jack squat, clearly.

Dean found a welcome distraction in the form of a robotic arm, sat temptingly at an empty table. He looked around him, waggled his eyebrows to Cas before bounding up to it like an excited child.

“Dean,” Cas warned, his footsteps quickening to keep pace, “don’t touch it!”

Dean touched it. It had three prongs for fingers and was holding a mug with a pug on it. A pug mug. Dean wanted that mug.

He tried to gently pry it out from between the prongs while Cas stood tensely by, his eyes darting this way and that, keeping look-out.  “What are you doing?” he whispered to Dean.

“Nothin’,” Dean said, as he resorted to pulling the mug more forcefully.

“Because it looks an awful lot like you’re tampering with a child’s science project.”

“ _ You’re _ tampering with a- oh shit.”  Dean had pulled too hard. The prongs fell apart from the main structure with a clatter. Dean baulked, Cas snorted, and all Dean had to show for it was a mug.

“Fix it,” Cas whispered urgently, “quick.”

“Do I look like a robot mechanic to you?” Dean hissed, “God, just… walk away. Look natural.” Dean walked away, keeping the precious mug tucked in the crook of his arm.

“I can’t believe...” Cas snorted, “You’re an idiot.”

“Did I, or did I not just steal a mug from a robotic arm? I think the word you’re looking for is ‘awesome’,” Dean preened, just as a horrified scream sounded from behind them. He quickened his pace.

“Well, I hope you’re pleased with yourself.”

Dean was. Immensely pleased.

There was an array of solar systems, of course, which Dean found completely unoriginal, but Cas seemed fascinated by. Especially the one that was motorized to accurately depict the orbits. Dean stood with Cas while he stared at the little ping pong moon whizz around the earth.

“It’s amazing isn’t it?” Cas said, his voice distant, “How this is happening right now. All around us. But it’s so big we can’t see it or comprehend its effects.”

He sounded high.  “Are you high?”

Cas glared at him, “No. Just… think it’s pretty cool.”

The room became very quiet when Cas's eyes locked onto his like that. Everything always became quiet when Cas looked at Dea, like the whole world was of little consequence. Cas’s eyes softened, danced around his face. Suddenly, Cas was closer than he had been a moment before, and Dean shook himself out of his trance to see Cas's finger coming towards his cheek, the tip rubbing gently at the corner of his mouth.

“How long has that been there?” Cas said, his breath tickling at Dean’s cheek, “Dinner?”

Dean took a hurried step backwards, his heart flinging itself desperately against his ribs. He rubbed impatiently at his mouth with his forearm and tried his best to calm his breathing. Castiel tilted his head to the side, in that adorable way he had.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Dean tried to answer, but his first attempt was nothing more than an undignified squeak. “M’fine,” he nodded briskly, clearing his throat.

“Missouri has all those books on stars,” Cas continued, as if he hadn’t just intimately wiped at dried lasagna on the corner of Dean’s mouth, “I looked through a couple. The stars hold our destinies, apparently.”

Dean scoffed, elated at the change in conversation, “That’s bull crap.”

Castiel’s eyebrows drew together, “How so?”

Dean closed the distance a little, purely to take a closer look at softball-Venus as it flew around and around. “Like, what do tiny balls of gas care about you? You know? You make your own future. Nobody holds the pages but you.”

“That’s terribly profound, Dean,” Cas smirked, his eyes tracking Dean’s face in a way he probably thought was subtle. He didn’t know what was happening between them. They’d both agreed to call it, to stop whatever this might have been. What had it been? A kiss. Some disturbing dreams that Dean had to sneak out of the room after. A fascination that scared him half to death. But maybe Cas was just being friendly. Just trying to put it all behind him and treat Dean like a friend. Because they  _ were _ friends by now, had to be. There was no denying what they’d been through together. Maybe if he tried hard, Dean could put this insistent, gnawing ache to rest. And just be friends.

“You have to find a hiding place for that mug,” Cas said, turning away and back towards Sam’s stall.

“Pug mug, Cas,  _ pug mug _ .”  After surreptitiously slipping his winnings into Missouri’s purse, covering it with one of her many scarves, a microphone screeched to life.

Sam hugged them each in turn as he headed to the front of the gym with the rest of his class, while Dean, Missouri and Cas were herded to the bleachers. Missouri fiddled with the pleated edges of Sam’s participation ribbon, a tear-filled smile on her face. Dean knew she was as proud as any mother, would be whether Sam came first or last.

Dean stared at the back of Sam’s shaggy head even as the lights dimmed in the gym, just to stop himself from looking at Cas because seriously, this was getting a little ridiculous. He didn’t  _ need _ to keep looking at him. He knew perfectly well what Cas looked like. The problem was, in the relative darkness, all the light being directed to the makeshift stage, everything was intensified. Cas's leg against his own was burning through two layers of denim, and Dean could almost fool himself into thinking that Cas was leaning into that touch, pushing against him. Dean could hear Cas's breathing, in fact, it was all he could hear unless he really concentrated on the back of Sam’s head.

He felt tetchy the longer he sat there, irritability tingeing everything around him. The gym was too hot, Cas was too close, this ceremony was taking too long. The man at the front, dressed in a sharp black suit (head of science, Missouri supplied), announced the winners and runners up by grade in his grating nasal voice, and this school was just too big. There were too many people. Everything was so stupid.

“Dean,” Cas said quietly, his brow knit with concern, “Are you feeling okay?”

Dean shrugged him off, even as his heart fizzed at the attention. He scowled inwardly. He’d called this off, he’d been the one to freak out, why was it that, after all of that, whatever this was with Cas had only gotten stronger? He gritted his teeth and trained all his senses on the stage with a single-minded focus.

It took a short lifetime to finally get to Sam’s class. Dean watched Sam’s shoulders tense up against his ears. Missouri’s hand found Dean’s arm and gripped it tight. Third place went to the motorized solar system, belonging to a kid who looked like a mini Spock by the name of Barry Cook. He tripped onto the stage, jeans a little too long and ratty at the bottom and accepted his prize and a photo with the superintendent where he didn’t quite manage to smile as the flash blinded him.

Missouri’s hand tightened, and Dean could’ve sworn he felt Cas gear himself up, too.

“Second place,” said the head of Science, “Sam Winchester with his project on seed dormancy.”

Missouri shot up like a jack-in-the-box, hollering until her voice broke. Dean could see tears tracking down her cheeks as he stood to cheer for his brother. He looked to his right to get Cas on his feet, too, but was taken aback to see him already stood, cheering just as loudly as Missouri, grin splitting his face in two. Dean’s eyes began to well and he batted impatiently at them before the tears could fall.

Sammy looked a little sheepish, waving to them from the stage, as he accepted his trophy and posed for his photograph. There were kids in the rows of plastic chairs cheering for him too, if Dean listened real close. His only wish in that moment was that John could’ve been there. He would’ve been so proud.

They waited for Sam back at his project table, as Cas delicately packed away the seedlings into the cardboard flats they’d carried them in. Dean watched his hands, knuckles scarred and still bearing old bruises, faded green around the edges, handle the seedlings so gently.

“You gon’ help?” Missouri bustled past him holding Sam’s poster boards, “or you gon’ stand there starin’ all night?”

Dean breathed deep, failing to reign in this bizarre fascination with all things Cas.

Sam made it through the throng of children and parents, squeezing through and falling into Dean’s arms. Dean ruffled his hair to avoid any chick-flick moments.

“Did you see Jess?” Sam asked, and Dean was thrown for a loop.

“Jess?”

“Jessica Moore, she won first prize,” Sam said impatiently, “has she left yet?”

Sam rolled his eyes indulgently at Dean’s blank expression and burst into the dark parking lot where Missouri and Cas were waiting by the car. Missouri engulfed Sam rocking him side to side as she chuckled with joy. Dean arrived the same time as a little blonde with exuberant curls bouncing around her face.

“Congratulations, Sam,” she said with a hand on his shoulder, “I thought your project was really interesting.”

Sam’s face looked fit to burst, and Dean smothered a laugh with a hand over his mouth.

“T-thanks, Jess,” Sam stammered, and if Dean wasn’t mistaken, Sam was trying to force his voice lower than usual, “yours was best though. Obviously.”

Dean traded amused looks with Missouri and Cas over Sam’s head as he floundered his way through the conversation. When they piled into the car, Sam sat hunched in the front seat.

“God, that was embarrassing,” he grumbled.

The frosty mornings of February gave way to March, the sun rising a little earlier, setting just a touch later, taking with it the very last of the biting chill in the air, returning green to the trees that lined Hawthorne Avenue. Dean figured, with Alastair still out there and pissed off, that Cas would want nothing at all to do with the garden. But, to his surprise, and delight, Cas picked that day to make a start on the planting, having spent a few days after school rebuilding the planters and trellises in the woodshop while Dean worked in the garage. The image of their place defiled, invaded by malice, was still very much at the forefront of Dean’s thoughts. But any trace of Alastair had been cleansed from the garden, they’d made doubly sure of that. And now, they would grow something beautiful out of that adversity.

And while it was a lame thing to admit, Dean was kind of excited about it.

The seeds rustled in their packets as the boys made their way to the garden. Wildflowers and sunflowers, peonies and daisies, all paid for with a portion of Dean and Sam’s inheritance money and Castiel’s allowance. They carried some potted plants, too, irises and roses and a few sprouts of honeysuckle in big cardboard flats. A baby rhododendron waved shyly in Dean’s arms.

Coming through the entrance, without having to duck for the first time, thanks to Bobby finally widening the tear in the chain link and folding it back to make an opening, they set down their treasures and admired the stretch of clear soil, alive with possibilities and promise.

It was a little overwhelming.

“Where do we start?” Dean asked.

Sam put his hands on his narrow hips, “What do you think I was doing with Karen’s gardening file?” He produced a folded piece of paper from his back pocket, spreading it on the dirt at their feet. Sammy had made a map. Dean was colored surprised. “I’m gonna start on the roses,” Sam nodded, “Cas, why don’t you start on marking the path, we should have some string in the shed, and Dean, you can plant the sunflowers, by Bobby’s fence.”

Dean chuckled, “Sounds good.”  Sam grinned up at him, carrying the pots of roses over near the back, where the garden was always drenched in sunlight. Dean spared a glance for the potatoes, still nestled snug in Baby’s tires. Nothing had broken the surface yet, but Dean could easily imagine those roots shooting into the dark, reaching out blindly, spreading wide.

Dean crouched by the fence shared with Bobby’s yard, running his fingers over the soil, nervous to start. He looked over to Cas, who was gently unspooling the string, digging little stakes into the ground by the shed, meticulously following the doodled shape on Sam’s map. From there, it split to connect the two entrances together. Cas shot him a bright smile, and Dean knew he felt just as good about reclaiming the garden.

Dean scooped a little hole in the dirt with his fingers, ripping open the sunflower seed packet and dropping one seed into each hole until he had a neat line of them hugged close to the fence. When they’d begin to sprout, he’d tie their stems to the chain-link to help keep them up.

Once Cas was done mapping out the path, he grabbed his wildflower seeds, his favored of the bunch. Poppies, cosmos, marigolds, forget-me-nots, scarlet flax, cornflowers as blue as his eyes. Cas had picked it mostly to help the bees, but Dean knew he was excited for the wild beauty of it, the transformation into something free and unruly. He walked slowly through the mapped-out bed, just to Dean’s left, near the hedge, letting the seeds spill from his fist, littering the ground with tiny jewels. Dean closed the distance between them, pressing them one by one into the soil, gently covering them.

“I wonder what we’ll get,” Castiel mused, crouching by Dean to help smooth over the earth. Dean liked the uncertainty, the anticipation. Meanwhile, Sam took painstaking care in planting the Spring bulbs, having situated the roses and the rhododendron. Gladiolus, Crocosmia, Anemone, Dahlia and Freesia. They flirted with the line of the path, spread out amongst Elephant Ears and Hydrangeas.

“The honeysuckles need somewhere to climb,” Castiel hedged, pointing to the plastic pots nearby, “would you mind?”

Dean nodded, “By the entrance?” He imagined the entrance way, completely transfigured, fragrant blossoms covering over the chains, turning them beautiful.

The boys knelt in the dirt and began to dig their holes. Turning the pot in his palm, Castiel gently teased the plant from its plastic prison. Castiel smiled, spreading the little plant’s roots gently with his fingers before placing it in its new home and covering it tightly with sun-warm soil. Dean couldn’t take his eyes from him, had no intention of breaking his gaze as he watched the sun play across Cas’s skin, his dark eyelashes fanning over the tops of his sharp cheekbones. They wound some zip ties, grabbed from the shed, loose around the stalks of each plant to encourage it to grow around the metal.

The irises were next, hairy bulbs plunged deep into the soil, with a few of the daisies, until they spread to fill one of the planters. Sam made a start on the lavender, sowing the seeds around the shed, keeping a space clear to fill with grass seed for a small lawn. A picnic area by the shed was a very important part of Sam’s plan.

Peonies and lilies, marigolds and snapdragons, daffodils and pansies, all of them were spread across the ground or housed in the planter boxes, until nearly every inch of soil was taken up by blooms-to-be. They worked until clouds gathered overhead and thunder began to rumble softly in the distance. Castiel turned his face towards the sky and Dean watched his throat stretch, mourning the loss of blue as his eyes slid closed.

“Take a picture,” Castiel teased, face eyes still closed, “it’ll last longer.”

Dean smiled thoughtfully as fat raindrops began to fall to the ground, slow at first, and then all at once. Sam squealed from the fence and Dean laughed as his hair stuck ruthlessly to his forehead, his clothes drenched in an instant. They tore open the remaining wildflower packets and threw the seeds every which way into the ground. They ran like garden sprites, laughing and sowing, before falling to their knees to cover the last seeds in soil. The dirt soaked into Dean’s jeans and the rain pelted against his back, but he was happy as could be.

Sam had run to take cover at Bobby’s house, but Dean stayed to cover the last of the seeds. The rain stole the warmth from the afternoon and he and Cas ran around, shivering and making sure everything was buried.

“This’ll help,” Dean shouted over the din of the rain and thunder. Cas’s expression softened as their eyes locked, the raindrops clinging to his eyelashes falling to look like tears. Dean moved to catch one, before he could stop himself, and Cas watched, still as stone as Dean touched his cheek, just barely. A shudder coursed through Dean’s being at the contact. The thunder roared overhead, and Dean laughed off the tension, the sound tinged a hue of panic, “We should get back.”

Cas would never know how Dean’s heart raced, how his mind was solely fixated on the subtleties of blue in his eyes, or the curl of his hair just behind his ears. He would never know how truly transfixed Dean had become.

He was so, so screwed.

The atmosphere between the walls of Craig High had become unbearable with finals lurking only a handful of weeks away. Charlie, Dean, Castiel and Jo had taken to sitting outside in the spring sunshine, beneath the shade of the many trees that lined the playing fields.

Castiel had been worried that Alastair would appear at the bleachers to smoke with Crowley, but he’d noticed Crowley had been alone for the past week or so, skulking about the halls and watching them from his favored smoking spots. He was sat on the bleachers by himself that Thursday afternoon in fact, as Castiel and Dean sat together on one of their only mutual study periods, going over each other’s essays for English. As Castiel watched Crowley, their eyes met. Something was wrong with Crowley’s face, but the distance made it hard to discern what exactly that was.

“Go over,” Dean said around the pen in his mouth, “you clearly want to.”

“I want to know if he knows anything about Alastair.”

Dean shrugged, “Me, too.”

“You’re sure?” Castiel stalled. While he was desperate to know if he was free of Alastair, he almost wanted Dean to protest his leaving. He didn’t want bad news, especially from Crowley’s mouth.

“Cas, please go,” Dean pleaded, “I gotta know.”

Castiel nodded, a touch disappointed, gathering his belongings and shouldering his backpack.

Crowley’s face was swollen and battered, and he winced whenever he sucked in his cheeks for a drag of his cigarette. He nodded his greeting at Castiel, wincing at that movement, too.

“What happened to you?” Castiel said, taking the offered cigarette, glancing back to Dean to make sure he was out of sight before lighting it.

“Alastair,” Crowley grunted, “boy got me good.”

Well, that simultaneously made no sense, and sounded entirely probable. “Why?”

“Probably had something to do with my statement,” Crowley shrugged, his voice as nonchalant as stating his name.

Castiel nearly choked, smoke billowing out of his mouth, hanging open in his surprise.

“Statement? To the police?”

“No, my bank statement,” Crowley glared, eyes rolling so far back for a moment Castiel could only see white.

It made no sense. Why would Crowley turn Alastair in?

“But-”

“This is  _ Alastair _ we’re talking about isn’t it? Why the confused puppy face?”

“Just…” Castiel was dumbfounded. He knew that the relationship between Al and Crowley had been tenuous at best, but he thought they at least trusted each other. Alastair probably thought that, too. Probably why Crowley looked like he did.

“You didn’t defend him?”

“Hell, no,” Crowley cackled, “didn’t even hesitate. I had a lot of evidence. The accent probably helped, too, hard to sound anything but trustworthy. He was arrested last night.” Castiel gaped at him. If he were the sort, he might dance on the spot. Alastair was gone. Gone. “Just say ‘thank you’, your face is making me nauseous.”

Castiel set his jaw. He’d really underestimated Crowley, it turned out. Castiel knew now that he’d been the one to tip Charlie off about Lilith, too. He reached out a hand to Crowley’s, who stared at it with thinly-veiled offense.

“Thank you, Crowley.”

“Wasn’t so hard was it now?” Crowley smiled, hopping down from the bleachers and stomping on his cigarette, leaving Castiel alone with a solitary pat to the shoulder.


	24. Asphodel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Tracks for Chapter:  
> Ragamuffin - Silversun Pickups  
> Elysium - Bear's Den  
> Old Master - Matthew And The Atlas  
> Reluctant Love - Maximo Park

It had been three nearly months to the day that Missouri first mentioned Gabriel’s hearing. Somehow, the day had arrived, no more setbacks or bumps in the road. Gabriel had called last night, nervous and desperate for reassurance. Castiel gave it to him, of course, but he himself was just as unsure about how this would pan out. A cruel game of chance, word play, the spinning of stories. Castiel just hoped Gabriel’s was a believable one.

The Dane County Courthouse was a serious building. Castiel remembered driving past it a bunch while he lived in the city, but the knowledge that he now had to enter it, had to see his brother in there made it even more imposing. The dazzling white bricks, the statuesque pillars. He looked to Missouri, who gave him just the smile he needed. How did she always know? Bobby was there, too. His hair was combed back, like it had been at Christmas. He was wearing a suit that hung off his shoulders and draped just a little too long over his hands. Like a caricature. Castiel was grateful to him all the same.

Missouri had rented a suit for Castiel, a deep blue, with fancy brown brogues that pinched his toes uncomfortably. He’d never worn anything like it. The heels tapped obnoxiously as he walked. He felt too sharp, too important, too noticeable. Dean looked wonderful of course; he carried his dark grey suit with an uncanny grace. It hugged tight to his strong frame in a way that made it hard to not stare. Sam looked older, sophisticated, his hair, usually shaggy and stretching towards his shoulders had been pushed back to reveal the nobility of his highbrow and cheekbones, his wide set jaw. Like he became a man overnight.

“Ready?” Missouri asked, laying a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, as a bird sang overhead. Castiel had heard that song many times and took comfort, courage from it.

He still couldn’t speak for fear of vomiting, so he gave a curt nod.

There was a lot of commotion behind the huge wooden doors: people running every which way, harried faces and urgent conversations buzzed everywhere he looked. There were several courtrooms, but Missouri led the way through the rabbit warren until they were sat on hard wooden benches that set an uncomfortable ache in his lower back. Castiel stared at the imposing desk at the front, which seemed to rise almost to the ceiling.

Castiel’s stomach lurched and tossed around with nausea, flipped over again as a speaker from the side declared, “All rise.”

The room erupted in shuffling and settled back to silence.

“Department One of the Superior Court is now in session. Judge Turner now presiding.”

Judge Turner looked like he’d rather be anywhere but there, his frown writ deep into his dark skin as he shuffled some papers on the desk.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” he spoke, his voice deep and grave, “Calling the case of the People of the state of Wisconsin versus Gabriel Krushnic. Are both sides ready?”

Castiel followed Rufus’ eyes to the front benches. And there he was. There was Gabriel. Castiel’s heart shrunk against the flare of emotions that surged unbidden, burning hot and intense. Castiel wanted to go to him. Missouri’s hand found his forearm and rested there gently. Holding him steady. There’d be a time for that.

After the necessary declarations from the lawyers and jury the room fell quiet again.

“Opening statements,” Missouri whispered, “Garth’s got this, hon.” A woman stood up, her dark, shoulder length hair shining as she flipped it over the shoulder of her suit. Missouri drew in a breath. “Ah,” she said, “Bela Talbot… bad news. Don’t worry, Castiel, don’t worry.”

Castiel swallowed as Bela began to speak, her English accent smooth and refined, like everything she had to say was of the utmost importance.

“Your honor and ladies and gentlemen of the jury: the defendant has been charged with the crime of taking and driving a car belonging to someone else, without the permission of the owner. The evidence will show that a 2013 Cadillac was stolen the night of July 21st. That same night, the defendant was arrested having crashed the stolen car. The defendant’s fingerprints are present on the keys to this car, the wheel and the gear stick. The evidence I will provide will prove that the defendant is guilty as charged.”

Castiel swallowed. It was all true. How was Gabriel going to escape from this? He watched as the skinny man with a nose too big for his face stood nervously from his seat next to Gabriel. Was he Gabriel’s defense? God, he was so screwed.

“Your honor,” said the man… Garth? His voice shaking. He smiled nervously, “ladies and gentlemen of the jury: under the law in this state of Wisconsin, my client is innocent until proven beyond reasonable doubt to be guilty. During this trial you may hear some real evidence against my client: but you will also hear a tale of a young man from a broken home, who made one bad decision; the only bad decision he’s ever made. I would ask that the jury show compassion towards this young man and decide to be merciful in their judgement.”

Missouri sighed, her hands folding completely over Castiel’s, “It’s better than nothin’.”

“What’s going on?” Castiel whispered, “He didn’t say that Gabriel isn’t guilty.”

“It’s hard to argue that he didn’t take the car,” Missouri chuckled, but there was only a sadness behind it, “but he can argue that Gabriel's a good kid who just… got caught up in his first and only offense.”

Castiel crossed his fingers tightly and closed his eyes. He prayed internally, like he’d never prayed before. _ Protect my brother, _ he pleaded,  _ please don’t take him away _ . Bobby’s hand fell heavy on his shoulder and gave a reassuring squeeze.

There weren’t many witnesses to be called, especially to Gabriel’s aid. The owner of the car was called first and confirmed that indeed he’d left his car on West Olin Avenue, where Castiel and Gabriel had been walking back from Goodman Park after a night of steady drinking. His heart shrunk again; would they charge him with being drunk, too? Next was the arresting officer. Castiel vaguely remembered him, the greying hair at his temples and his dark, unforgiving eyes. Bela asked all the questions, they were all her witnesses and wove her a seamless story, painting Gabriel as guilty as he truly was. There was a burning sensation at the back of Castiel’s throat. He wanted nothing more than to hold his brother. Then came the fingerprint expert, the one who tested the car and the keys. The room began to spin. Castiel sought out Dean’s green eyes, but only found his profile, mouth set in a grim line, dragging a little at the corners. Sam turned and gave him a little smile, gifting Castiel just enough strength to breathe deeply and steady himself.

He kept willing Garth to stand up, to say something, to spin his own narrative, but when prompted to cross-examine, he sat and shook his head with a quiet “No, your honor”. Castiel grit his teeth. Was nobody going to save Gabriel?

“Is the defense ready with its case?” said Judge Turner.

“Yes, your honor,” Garth said, “I call the defendant.”

Castiel’s heart stopped. Gabriel took to the stand, his golden-brown hair so long it was almost over his eyes, which were ringed dark with sleepless nights. Castiel bit his lip. Gabriel raised his right hand, swore to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth, in a voice that was huskier and quieter than usual.

“State your name,” declared the clerk, peering at him over his glasses.

“Gabriel Krushnic.”

“You may be seated.”

Garth stood close to Gabriel, his shoulders a little hunched, his hands balled in his pockets.

“Gabriel, where were you on the night of July 21st?”

Gabriel’s eyes stayed on some vague spot in front of him, his voice calmer than it had been last night, “I was at Goodman Park with my brother, Castiel.”

“And did you see a black 2013 Cadillac at that location?” Garth asked, resting his hand upon the stand, perhaps in reassurance.

“On West Olin Avenue, just by the park, yes sir.”

“I’m going to come out and say it: Gabriel, did you steal the car?”

Gabriel’s lips pressed together, and he nodded once.

“Defendant must speak aloud for the jury,” said Judge Turner.

“Yes,” Gabriel said to his lap, “I stole the car.”

“Alright, Gabriel, thank you. Tell us, have you ever stolen a car before?”

Gabriel lifted his head then, his eyes bouncing across Garth’s face, flitting to those of the jury, “No, sir.”

“Have you ever been in trouble with the law like this before?”

“No, sir,” he said, voice gaining a little strength. Castiel’s hands balled into fists so tight his fingers ached.

“So, it’s fair to say this is your first offence.”

“That’s correct, sir.”

Castiel watched his brother, his face full of remorse. It didn’t seem forced like it always had been at home. He looked genuinely sorry. Those seven months in jail had changed him, moulded him. He was still his brother, still a goofball and a rebel, but it was clear to see he had grown. Castiel hoped that’d be enough for the jury to show him their mercy.

“Okay, thank you, Gabriel. I’d like to ask about your home life. Is your father present in the household?”

Castiel felt himself tense just as he saw Gabriel’s shoulders rise towards his ears. His jaw clenched. Castiel looked to the members of the jury, wondering if anyone had noticed the change.

“He is not, sir,” Gabriel answered evenly, as if his father’s absence didn’t hurt as much as Castiel knew it did, “Hasn’t been since I was five.”

“What was the nature of his departure?”

Gabriel looked out then, and his eyes instantly found Castiel. Something shifted then in his expression and Castiel shook with it. He tried to convey to Gabriel that he was here for him, like he’d always been. He wasn’t alone up there. He tugged subtly at the chord, the corner of Gabriel’s mouth twitching imperceptibly.

“It wasn’t good,” Gabriel said, his voice more confident, “he and my mom would fight almost every day.”

“And your little brother, Castiel? How old was he when your father left?”

“He was just a baby, sir, nearly two. I looked after him myself. Our mom… she was… still _ is  _ a heavy drinker, and it fell to me to be Cas's parent most of the time.”

“Your mother had partners after your father left, correct?”

Castiel could see them, every single man his mother ever depended on. Cruel, vindictive, manipulative men who saw in her a vulnerable woman and nothing more. He and Gabe were always resented, baggage used against her in the end.

“Yes, sir,” Gabriel answered.

“And what was that like?”

Gabriel studied his hands, curled on the desk in front of him, his fingers weaving in and out of each other. It was a tick Castiel always remembered him having, usually when he was telling hard truths.

“It would get violent more often than not. It wasn’t always just between mom and Mr. Right neither. My job was to protect Castiel at all costs.”

“And is that what you were doing the night of July 21st?”

Castiel closed his eyes against the memory of that night. The reason they’d been out in the first place. Marv had tried to hit Gabriel; his mother had thrown and smashed half the plates in the kitchen. The house was a mess.  Gabriel just herded him out the door without a word. They had been children of a near-constant warzone.

“Yes, sir. My mom’s boyfriend, Marv, tried to hit me. I didn’t want Castiel around that, so I took him away to the park.”

“What were you doing at the park, Gabriel?”

“Hanging out,” Gabriel shrugged, “he’s my best friend, my brother. I’d do anything for him.”

Missouri’s hands tightened on Castiel’s forearm. “Look at the jury,” Missouri whispered. Castiel took in each face carefully. There were no smiles, some shaking heads, but there was sympathy, pity perhaps, in every expression.

“So, though you’re not denying the fact you stole the car, would it be fair to say that you admit it was a terrible mistake?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the only reason you were on West Olin the night of July 21st was to rescue your brother from a toxic home environment? To prevent potential physical harm to either him or yourself?”

Gabriel’s chin began to shake, Castiel could see it despite the distance. He swallowed heavily, so heavy Castiel thought he might have heard it.

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you, Gabriel. No further questions, your honor.”

“Does the prosecution have any questions?” said Judge Turner, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.

“No, your honor,” Bela sighed.

“Alright, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I’m going to read you the law that you must follow in deciding this case. To prove the crime against the defendant, the prosecution must prove three things to you: first, that the defendant took and drove a car that did not belong to him. Second, that the owner of the car did not give permission to the defendant to do this, and third, that the defendant intended to take away the owner’s rights to the car, whether temporarily or permanently. If each of you believes the prosecution proved all three of these things beyond a reasonable doubt, you must find the defendant guilty. Consider all of the evidence presented to you today, and let the charge you give be true.”

Judge Turner turned his dark, patient eyes to the lawyers.

“Are you ready with your final arguments?”

“Yes, your honor,” Bela and Garth intoned.

Bela stood, straightening her stiff jacket, smiling briefly at the jury as she stood to face them. Castiel’s fingers clenched into his palms, leaving little half-moons that stung against the skin.

“Your honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury: you’ve been told that the prosecution has had to prove three things against the defendant, Gabriel Krushnic today. I don’t think there can be any doubt in your minds that Gabriel Krushnic is guilty of stealing the car in question; not only did you hear the owner of the car explicitly tell you he gave no permission to the defendant or anybody to use his car, or the fingerprint technician proving the defendant’s fingerprints were everywhere inside the vehicle, you also heard the defendant  _ admit his guilt. _ There should be no doubt in your minds, ladies and gentlemen. You must find the defendant guilty.”

Garth rubbed at the back of his neck as he approached the jury, his gentle, friendly features set stern as he considered each of them one by one.

“Your honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury: you’ve heard from Gabriel’s own mouth the story of the night in question. I agree that there should be no doubt in your minds that he is indeed guilty. Gabriel knows it and has suffered with the knowledge of his mistake every day since, for seven months in county jail. He has seen his little brother  _ once _ in that time, nobody else has visited him. Nobody else has cared. Gabriel has had nobody to stand up for him except for me. I would ask only that you consider what you decide for this young man, brought up in a destructive family home, forced to be a responsible adult from too young an age. I implore you; show mercy in your judgement of Gabriel. Do not squander his potential for a better life based on one petty crime. I thank you for your patience today and trust that you will find some compassion for him.”

“That was good,” Missouri whispered and Castiel nodded.

“What’s going to happen?” Castiel replied, almost unconsciously leaning into her warmth.

“Garth’s case was solid. They’ll find him guilty no matter what, but they may not send him to prison. All depends on whether Garth has managed to sway the judge.”

“Do you think he has?”

Missouri considered the judge, sat at his desk, looking over some papers and rubbing his eyes, “Rufus Turner is a good man. Very fair, very just. It feels positive. The energy’s good in here.”

Castiel rolled his eyes fondly, keeping them trained on the back of Gabriel’s head. Whatever the ‘energies’ were telling her, Castiel wasn’t going to lose his brother again. That much was for sure.

The jury didn’t even leave the room, just murmured quietly to one another as paper and a pen was passed from one to the other. Castiel felt the familiar burn of Dean’s eyes on him and he dared to look. Dean’s eyes shined with something that looked suspiciously like tears. He gave a watery sort of smile, the meaning of which Castiel couldn’t even begin to understand. Their eyes lingered on one another, and it was like the courtroom, buzzing quietly with activity, just fell away. All that existed was that look in Dean’s eyes, his cheeks a little pink under his freckles.

Bobby’s hand on his shoulder shocked him out of his indulgence and Castiel watched as Dean blushed furiously, looking back down into his lap where his heavy hands twisted around one another.

“Think they’re ready, son,” he said quietly.

Judge Turner sat forward in his seat, his hands spread against the dark wood of his desk, “Will the jury foreperson please stand? Has the jury reached a unanimous verdict?”

One of the jurors stood, a woman with a shock of tight black curls clutching the paper in her hands, “Yes, your honor.”

The piece of paper was taken from her hands and Judge Turner studied it, his expression smoothing with a curt nod. The clerk stood to the side and cleared his throat. Castiel’s fingers crossed hard enough for the bones to begin to grind.

“The ladies and the gentlemen of the jury find the defendant guilty.”

Castiel closed his eyes against the surge, but Missouri’s hand returned to his arm, steadying him, grounding him “Hold on, hon, that ain’t the end.”

He concentrated on keeping his breathing slow.

Judge Turner sat back and folded his hands in front of him and he sighed heavily.

“There we have it, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “and now I’m faced with a decision. To punish Gabriel as the adult he is, or to act as Mr. Fitzgerald has pleaded. We have heard of Gabriel’s background, the unsupportive home environment he was raised in, is it any wonder that he behaves in this way? I ask myself, who is to blame? In this case, I wish to be merciful. I do not believe that Gabriel is bad at heart, or that he is at risk of committing a similar crime in the future. With all of this considered, I have decided to issue time served, which in this case is seven months, plus three hundred hours of community service. Thank you everyone for your time today. Court is adjourned.”

Castiel’s chest swelled two sizes. Gabriel wasn’t going to prison. He couldn’t wipe the grin from his face as Bobby’s hand squeezed his shoulder tight enough to bruise, Missouri folded him into her chest, pressing a solid kiss to the top of his head. He pushed her away gently, his heart fizzing. Sam and Dean looked to him with bright eyes and even brighter smiles. All these people, they’d been here for him, they held him fast, caught him if he fell. Everything soared over his head, like an endless tidal wave, just rising and rising, never breaking or soaking him to the bone. Because he had protection. And people who loved him. If he could cry he would have. He could fill an ocean, brimming with gratitude, with relief.

As Gabriel stood to leave, his eyes found Castiel once more. He grinned wide and gave Castiel a little wave. It said, ‘see you soon.’

Castiel hoped he would.

They gathered that night in Missouri’s garden, a modest stretch of green grass, scattered with daisies and dandelions. She had very little time for maintenance, and between studying and his work in the allotment, Dean could only mow it once every couple of weeks at best. Still, now it was neatly trimmed, the branches of the blooming dogwood tree rustled, smelling just like Dean remembered it had that afternoon with Jo all those years ago. They set themselves up on the lawn, dragged Missouri’s moth-eaten camping gear from the cupboard beneath the stairs and brushed them down. Bobby was nursing an alcohol-free beer, his cap pulled low over his eyes.

Dean saved the beer before it tipped out of his dozing hand, finding it a new home by the leg of his chair. He was still decompressing from their day at court. He could only imagine how Cas felt right now, but judging by his near-constant smile, Dean would say relieved was a pretty good guess. He loved seeing Cas smile. He’d completely given up trying to stop his feelings in the last week or so. They were too insistent, so strong they burst through any line of defense he had. So, he just… stopped fighting it. And suddenly everything was easy. His conversations with Cas were easy, being around him was easy. Dreaming about him had always been constant, but now Dean didn’t rush the recovery. He let himself bask in the humming of his skin, the heat beneath the blankets.

Sam had taken notice of Dean’s unabashed staring and had moved on to talking at length about Castiel when their bedroom light was switched off. “What are you going to do about it?” he’d ask, breathless with excitement. “He likes you too, you know.”

Dean had had his reasons for calling it off a few months ago. It was dangerous. Sam, Charlie, Jo, they would’ve all been in Alastair’s line of fire, and he hadn’t wanted to risk their safety for the sake of a kiss. But now that Alastair was well and truly gone… what was stopping him? The answer used to be that his father wouldn’t like it. And as cruel as it was to think, he didn’t have to worry about that any longer. He didn’t have to hide.

Missouri had whipped up a feast, Castiel manning the grill, turning marinated chicken legs and wings, smothered ribs, with clumsy hands. Dean smirked, getting up to help.

“Hello Dean,” Castiel said, the smoke almost masking his face. Meat sizzled uncontrollably and Castiel flinched from it. Dean couldn’t help but chuckle.

“You need a hand?”

Castiel scowled, but he handed over the tongs all the same, near scampering away from the heat of the flames. Dean removed the ribs, moving the chicken to the top, hiding his blush with the bow of his head. He could feel Cas watching him. He wondered what Castiel saw in him. The stares always felt reverent, like he was something precious. It was thrilling, and altogether uncomfortable.

“First time grillin’?” he asked.

“First… this,” Castiel motioned about them, “We never ate outside, and we certainly didn’t eat much fresh-cooked stuff.”

Dean smiled sadly, “Same. We had a cookout on a disposable grill, but like… no more than twice.”

Castiel seemed a little more confident, stepping closer and watching as Dean re-smothered the ribs, brushed the chicken with oil and herbs, checked the corn.

Missouri came out with a heaping bowl of potato salad, closely followed by Sam carrying an equally large bowl of wild rice. Charlie and Jo appeared at the back door and Dean dropped everything to pull them both into his arms.

“Cas,” Charlie cried, “I’m so happy for you, seriously.”

“How was court?” Jo asked, dumping a large box, which on closer inspection, was full to the brim with beer and cider. Jo rolled her eyes, “Mom. Starting to think the woman has plans for me. She knew we had a reason to celebrate.”

“How?” Castiel frowned, just as Missouri came bustling back.

“Me, of course. Now, who’s watchin’ the damn grill?”

Dean bustled back over, chucking cooked hot dogs on the top shelf to char. Castiel crowded back in and Dean’s heart began to thud.

“You watched enough, Cas? Good to take it from here?” Dean smiled, handing over the tongs without waiting for Cas’s answer. Charlie and Jo had settled themselves in the kitchen, and Dean followed, to take himself out of that precarious situation. He’d hate to think what would happen if he grabbed Cas’s face and kissed him stupid right then and there. Missouri was huddled by the lounge window as he stepped inside. He bypassed snooping in favour of getting some ice set up for the Jo’s beers, but he heard Cas’s name and his curiosity won out. He crowded close to the connecting wall, waving Jo and Charlie away as they snickered at his back.

“I understand, Valerie, it… of course,” Missouri said, and Dean frowned. Who the heck was Valerie? Why was she talking about Cas?

“Valerie, listen, I know that it’s hard. But your programme is so close to done, please, just stick with it. You said you wanted to be better before seeing him again, don’t… I know, hon, I know.”

Programme? Who was this woman?

“I’m here for you, you know that. Let me know when your discharge date is, alright? We’ll speak soon.”

Dean busied himself in the kitchen before Missouri had a chance to catch him. It didn’t escape his notice that though Missouri had mentioned Cas several times, she didn’t, at any point, bring up that conversation with him. The whole thing smelled off. He had a sneaking suspicion Valerie was Cas’s mom, but now he was saddled with something that Cas didn’t know. Something pertaining directly to him that Missouri was keeping secret. He wasn’t even sure what Cas’s reaction to the news would be; he didn’t seem to have the best relationship with his mom. And he looked so happy right now.

Missouri was obviously keeping it secret for a reason. So, with great difficulty, Dean swallowed his guilt and promised himself he’d mention nothing of it.

The food was consumed, beers and ciders too (by everyone except Sam, who had to make do with the sneaky sips Dean slipped him when nobody else was watching) and everyone bundled into jackets when the sun sunk below the horizon, not quite wanting to leave the fresh air just yet.

“What are you kids thinkin’ for prom?” Missouri said suddenly, winning herself a handful of groans.

“Big ol’ eff you to prom, you guys are welcome to join me at the Roadhouse,” Jo laughed, raising her can of beer.

“I figured,” Missouri chuckled, “what would you guys say to some sort of… graduation party? Down at the lot?”

Dean looked to Cas, naturally, because he always looked to Cas when it came to the garden. Cas shrunk beneath the attention as all eyes followed suit.

“That’d be awesome,” Charlie said, grinning, “something like this, but for everyone in the neighbourhood?”

Dean watched Cas’s mouth twitch, a private little smile. Dean could tell the idea was settling somewhere in him, warming him from the inside. Could see it in the softening of his posture.

“Let’s do it,” Cas said quietly, to cheers in the dark.


	25. Valerian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Tracks for Chapter:  
> Everything Was Mine - The Weather Station  
> About You Now - MEadowlark  
> My, My, My! - Troye Sivan  
> Live - Billie Marten

 

The relief when Spring Break finally arrived was palpable throughout the school halls. With the pressures of finals looming, Castiel was thankful for the time off. Without Alastair and Lilith hanging around him like a noxious cloud, and Gabriel free to call him whenever he pleased, and he did, often, just because he could, everything was a little easier.

Castiel felt truly content. It had been a long time.

Dean had spent most of his time with Bobby in the garage, finishing up the repairs on his dad’s car. Castiel spent a lot of time at the Roadhouse with Charlie and Jo. He liked the bar work, especially when it gave Jo the chance to hang out with Charlie, who tended to sit prettily at the bar, twining her red hair around her delicate fingers, very deliberately pretending to read college prospectuses. He saw the way Jo traced that movement, how her eyes always fell back onto Charlie as if by instinct.

Charlie gave away very little, but the way she tangled her fingers between Jo’s in the quiet moments between punters told Castiel everything he needed to know. And seeing two of his closest friends share something like that, hurt. Because seeing it only solidified Castiel’s desire for it.

Since Alastair’s arrest, Dean was calmer, more relaxed, more generous with himself. He no longer distanced himself, and his smiles were no longer strained with self-consciousness. But now they’d entered some sort of stalemate. Castiel knew Dean felt the way he was feeling, if not by the words that had tumbled out of his mouth only a few months ago, it was obvious in the blushes, the fervent glances. The fact that, when Dean wasn’t fixing Baby, he was always close by. The problem was neither of them would be the first to jump.

Charlie had teased him endlessly, told him to just go for it because it had been long enough already for crying out loud. What was he waiting for?

It was the chance that Dean would still reject him, change his mind, that that night at Meg’s had only been the alcohol talking, mimicking Dean’s voice, mercilessly teasing him with a glimpse of what it could be like to have Dean love him. What they had right now was delicate, brittle, and if this was all he was meant to have, he’d prefer it over having Dean hate him again. So, he pined from afar, and told himself it was enough.

It was the end of the first week of break, and a rare day when Dean had had enough of the smell of petrol and the feel of grime beneath his nails. Castiel had been keeping a close eye on the garden, anxious to see it bloom, but each time he’d walked past it, it lay bare, quiet with promise. He’d almost wondered if perhaps they’d done something wrong, but Sam had done so much research it was impossible. It was teaching him patience was all.

They walked slowly, he and Dean, Charlie and Jo, back from the Roadhouse. Dean had waggled his eyebrows when they found Charlie was already there, yawning and stretching, like she’d slept there the night before. Castiel wouldn’t have been surprised.

The four of them stopped in their tracks at the first sight of green thrusting through the chain-link. Castiel frowned. The garden had looked bare as ever before when they walked by not half an hour ago. Charlie gasped softly beside them, laying a hand on Castiel’s shoulder.

They walked towards the doorway, covered in honeysuckle that spread its fingers over the sharp edges, clung to the metal and turned it green. Alive. Inside, the garden had exploded.

Sam dropped his bag to the ground to join his jaw, rifling through it for his notebook, flipping through his pages and pages of planning and mapping, lowering it again with a dumbstruck expression. Birds chuckled overhead, swooping in and out of the hedge at the back, pecking at the ground, dappled with the spring sunshine. Grass sprouted between the flagstones of the path that Bobby had helped them lay a few days before. Buttercups and daisies poked their heads through the gaps too and spread themselves over the lush little lawn by the shed, bobbing in the gentle breeze.

Dean was the first to walk forward, to trail his hands gently over the heads of the foxgloves and roses, the rhododendron with its pale pink blooms as big as dinner plates dwarving his six-foot frame.

“How…” Charlie cut herself off and stared in amazement. Her hand found Jo’s, gripped it tight.

The hedge whispered happily in the breeze, and the little blackbird landed in front of them, hopping and chirruping with glee. Castiel followed it on the winding path through the bluebells and the irises, the sunflowers and forget-me-nots. Everywhere he looked there was life. Hardly contained in that small space, it strained and hurled itself against the fences, crawling up and over in some places.

Somewhere he heard Sam laugh, full of disbelief and wonder, as Bobby approached the fence slowly from his backyard. His ratty hat was clutched tight in his hands and his chin was shaking. He watched Charlie spin in the dappled sunlight on the lawn, the grass already halfway to her knees. Her laughter seemed to sparkle as Jo took her hands and spun the two of them round and around.

Dean appeared by his side, pressed close, from hip to shoulder, and Castiel shuddered at the warmth. Dean’s breath was a gentle brush against his cheek.

“You did it, Cas.”

Castiel turned to him, Dean’s eyes so close he could see gold flecks amongst the green that he’d never noticed before.

“ _We_ did it,” he whispered, turning away and closing his eyes. And if he stood very still, concentrated, he could feel it: the thrum beneath the earth, that power, that inexplicable feeling Missouri told him about. The magic.

It was real. It was all real.

 

In the absence of worries, Castiel’s mind took to one of two directions. One was solely concerned with finals, and what it would mean if he was accepted for college. Who would he become? Who did he want to be? It was a meandering, winding path, full of sharp turns that all led to the same dark hole; what if he didn’t get in? What if, even with Lilith arrested, her story disproved as far as the county was concerned, her claims still stuck to him? What if, after everything Charlie had done, after the distance he’d travelled to make it to this moment content and on the cusp of peace, it was all for naught? What if he still wasn’t enough?

And when he was able to claw his way out of that spiral, his thoughts turned to his mother. The final piece of the puzzle, brushed under the carpet, begrudgingly forgotten, neglected, left to gather dust. He could say he didn’t care, that he hadn’t thought of her until now, but it wasn’t the truth. She would always be his mom, and if he pushed aside all the shit, the dead leaves and weeds, he found the kernel of happier memories. The times she held him when he was afraid, saved the crusts of Gabriel’s sandwiches because while his brother hated them, Castiel loved the them best. Especially when they’d had the money to get soft bread with seeds and grains sprinkled on top.

She hadn’t left him much choice when she left him behind. _It’s for the best_ , best for who? That note had haunted him since the first time he lay eyes on it. It certainly hadn’t felt like the best back then. But, then again, he supposed, if she hadn’t have left him, he wouldn’t be here in Janesville. He wouldn’t have found true friends in Jo and Charlie and Claire. He wouldn’t have found a surrogate little brother in Sam, or a mother in Missouri. He would never have met Bobby or Ellen. He’d never have found the garden.

He certainly wouldn’t be staring down the barrel of finals, anxiously awaiting a letter to seal his future. A lot had changed. Inside and out.

Maybe it had been for the best. Maybe she’d been right. And as the second week of Spring Break came to a close, Castiel couldn’t help himself. He wanted to go back to Madison, back to his home. Maybe she was there, waiting for him. New and improved. The opportunity presented itself in the form of Dean’s triumphant smile, the Impala purring on the curb behind him. Castiel would be a fool if he didn’t accept it as a sign. Dean was more than happy at the immediate prospect of his first drive and leapt straight back into the driver’s seat.

The Impala soared beneath Dean’s hands and he smiled wide, the sort of smile Castiel would never get sick of seeing. Castiel ran his hands over the dark leather seats, fingers curling into it where it had warmed in the sunshine.

“Pretty sweet, huh?” Dean laughed, patting the dashboard like the head of an obedient dog.

“It’s a nice car, Dean,” Castiel answered, smiling to himself.

“ _She_ , Cas, _she_ ,” Dean corrected seriously. Castiel could only roll his eyes, “So… why are we headed to Madison?”

Castiel sighed, “I just… wanted to see my house. Is that sad?”

They were done with biting comments, underhanded slights. Castiel wasn’t sure why he expected anything other than Dean’s warm eyes turned towards him. Castiel’s breath still caught every damn time.

“No,” Dean said.

The drive was peaceful, Dean singing along under his breath to songs from the stack of cassette tapes stuffed in the glove compartment. Castiel watched him, unabashed, drumming his fingers lightly against the steering wheel, nodding his head, his mouth forming the lyrics. Dean knew every word.

Castiel directed him past his old high school, through the town, past the Applebees where he and Gabe would stockpile on condiments, sit down for a lunch the cost of which was added to a tab of good faith with the owner. Castiel wondered ruefully if Gabriel managed to finally pay that off.

Memories came whirling back, like they never had before. He remembered this street, where he and Gabe had found a pair of abandoned bikes and took them for a joy ride before they were caught by two very stern fathers. They’d been marched straight home, grounded for three weeks, and broken their punishment within a matter of _hours_. His mother’s dejected face startled him in its sudden clarity. The way her head hung in her hands at the kitchen table as she murmured their sentence. She’d fallen asleep surrounded by letters, Castiel remembered seeing her just before he snuck out the door.

Castiel shared some of those stories with Dean as they neared his old elementary school, "I was married to a girl once. Had the ceremony under that oak right there." He jammed his finger against the glass at the gnarled old tree, whose branches stretched over the fence and into the playground.

Dean slowed the car to a crawl, craning his neck to see out the window. "Her name was Rachel. She was my first kiss, too, just...there..." Castiel pointed out the playground where he'd crouched in the tunnel with her, playing spies.

"She'd just lost her front teeth." Dean grimaced and Castiel laughed.

"How was that?"

"Pretty tame. We were six, so..." He trailed off with a cheeky smile and Dean threw his head back and laughed. Castiel remembered Rachel then, her light hair that fell into her eyes, the ring he’d given her; a split pin taken from his book report, whose brass arms bent around her tiny finger. After that, he and Rachel grew apart, as children often did, and within a week their marriage had been entirely forgotten.

As Dean drove up his street, Castiel grew nervous. He no longer felt content to be here, like one usually is when faced with _home_. Too much had changed, too many turns on the road. He’d ended up a stranger. Dean pulled up outside the house, regarded it with a quiet expression. Castiel eased himself out the passenger door, eyes never once leaving the house he grew up in.

It stood the same as it always had: run down, beat up, only now it was dark, too. There was the bit of roof Castiel had jumped off to see if he could fly. He broke his collarbone and his arm for that. And there, his bedroom window, where he’d sneak out, climb down the conveniently placed drain to meet Gabriel on the sidewalk after dark. The fence that he and Gabriel rebuilt after one of mom’s boyfriends drove straight into it because he couldn’t handle the break up.

Nobody was home, but it was more than that. The house felt like it had sat empty for quite some time. It was cold here. Where was Marv? The longer he considered it, the easier it was to admit he didn’t have the stomach to care. Good riddance to him.

Dean shut the driver’s door carefully, so as not to disturb the strange air that had settled. He stayed leaning against the Impala. Castiel appreciated the space. He told Dean the stories of this house as they came to him. Dean did the only thing he needed to do. He listened. And Castiel’s heart never stopped fluttering like some caged bird. He felt, staring at that empty house, a sense of completion. Not quite satisfying but… finished. He was done with this place, with this house and the tangle of memories that sprawled at its feet. The tears and the fights, the bruised knuckles and the empty liquor bottles piled high under the sink, they were behind him. All the hurt, all the pain of this place, it couldn’t touch him now.

It was done.

He turned around, finally, turning his back on his bedroom window, the crumbling paint of the front door, the mess of the front yard, the conveniently placed drain.

“Let’s go,” he nodded to Dean.

They drove through the city as the sun began to set, street lights and house lights blinking on as they passed. Led

Zeppelin blasted through the sound system and Dean performed quietly, just as before. And just as before, Castiel watched. There was an ease to their friendship that was altogether confusing. The boundaries weren’t clear, nothing was clear. Castiel’s fingers ached to touch. He wanted Dean to gasp against his lips again. But, he didn’t know the limits of this balance. He didn’t know the weight that would tip the scale.

They stopped at White Castle, at Castiel’s insistence, and took their burgers to the place Castiel and Gabriel used to go to get away from it all. It was always a long walk whenever they had gone there, up high above the city, but in the light of dusk, when the houses and buildings began to twinkle below, it was always completely worth it.

Dean parked, right up to the edge of the drop-off and got out to lean against the hood. Castiel joined him and there they stood, shoulder to shoulder, gazing out at the city below.

“You okay?” Dean asked, dunking his fries into his milkshake. Castiel watched, nodded a little jerkily.

“You ever do this?” Dean smiled around bulging cheeks, “It’s good.” Castiel considered the milkshake as Dean held it up under his nose, “Go on, try it. You’ll love it, I promise. You’ll never eat a dry fry ever again.” He could feel Dean’s eyes on him as he hesitantly picked a fry, swirled it in the ice-cold baby pink milkshake, just as he’d seen Dean do. The salt-sweet, hot-cold exploded in his mouth. He grinned. It _was_ good.

Dean had moved closer, so close Castiel could count the freckles dotted around his eyes.

And suddenly Dean was on him. Just like that. Not forceful or violent, but reverent. Desperate, like he couldn’t stop himself any more. The milkshake slipped off the hood where shaky hands had placed it, before they clung to Castiel’s face and he kissed the grin away, eyes screwed closed. Castiel melted. It was over before it had really begun, but Dean’s hands were still on his face, rough-padded thumbs tracing Castiel’s cheekbones. Castiel closed his eyes and just felt. His breath hitched as one of Dean’s hands travelled to the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair. He felt vulnerable in a way Castiel never let himself be. And in that moment, he knew Dean had finally stopped fighting. Stopped… stopping. And Castiel felt pure. Light. All that anger, burning, churning, hot anger and hatred was gone, evaporated. It belonged in that dark little house on Theresa Terrace.

 

His breath left him all at once as he felt Dean come close again, slower this time. Castiel felt the weight of Dean’s body press him into the Impala and he lifted trembling hands to Dean’s waist, to encourage, to soothe. Because Dean’s breath was coming fast and shallow, his hands were shaking against Castiel’s skin. He opened his eyes just in time to see Dean’s fall closed and the press of his lips was gentler, less insistent; a question instead of a cry.

Castiel kissed him back.

And his hands came to rest on Dean’s neck, thumbs tracing the sharp cut of Dean’s jaw as Dean drew heavy lines down his chest. They rested over his hammering heart. As if Dean wanted to make sure. They kissed gently, slowly. Castiel had never been kissed like that. Hesitant and patient. Dean was pressing into him, like he no longer wanted anything between them, never again. Like any second, he would mould, like putty, to the lines of Castiel’s body. Castiel held him close, like one holds something precious, something to keep. His hands took bunches of Dean’s hair and fistfuls of his t-shirt, traced the muscles along Dean’s arms, ran over his shoulders and back, took in everything they’d been aching to know.

Dean was moving then, dragging Castiel with him. Castiel followed, blindly, for the first time in his life. He submitted himself fully and he almost collapsed in relief. He didn’t need to fight, not any more. Dean pressed him into the back seat of the Impala. Castiel lay beneath Dean’s weight, and it felt safe. He was finally safe. He wanted to talk, to ask what they were doing, what this meant, to tell Dean everything that was happening to him in this moment. But there was a sacred sort of hush in the back bench of Dean’s car that he was loathe to break. Everything was delicate.

So, he spoke with his hands, told Dean how he’d dreamed of this moment with awe-laden touches to his thighs, hips, waist. Anywhere he could reach.

Dean leant back, pulled his shirt up and over his head and Castiel’s hands became metal to a magnet. His chest was freckled, paler than the back of Dean’s neck and forearms, which were dark with the sun’s kisses. That soft skin stretched across Dean’s heart and plunged south to his dark jeans. He leaned up on his elbows, buried his face in the point where Dean’s neck met his shoulder and he breathed deep, overwhelmed, the leather smell that Dean had, before shrugging off his own shirt with shaking hands. He pressed kisses to any place he could: the inside of Dean’s forearm, the crease of his elbow, the delicate skin of his wrist.

“Cas,” Dean murmured, “you gotta let me know, this is okay right?” Dean leaned back again to watch any response on Castiel’s face, his eyes dancing all around: his forehead, the fan of his dark, chaotic hair against the leather seat, each of his eyes, his lips.

And the knot untied. It unraveled and filled Castiel with light. Because how, in any world, could Dean think this wasn’t okay? That this wasn’t the rightest thing either of them would ever know. He soared up to capture Dean’s mouth again, his kisses fervent and overjoyed. The light flooded behind his eyelids, snatched his breath. He pushed Dean up and back and with awkward limbs and stifled laughs, he switched their positions. Dean was beautiful like that, eyes blown out black with desperation, spread beneath him, completely trusting. His flushed chest heaved, and there was an obvious flutter of his furious pulse in the smooth skin of his neck.

“It’s okay,” Castiel whispered against that spot, feeling Dean’s heartbeat throb against his lips, “it’s very much okay.”

Dean burst supernova, confessions tumbling from his lips like a man possessed, like he was speaking in tongues. He continued through Castiel’s caresses to his cheeks, running the tip of his finger down the line of Dean’s nose, over his lips, still moving around his pleas; “Wanted this for so long, Cas, you don’t know, God, you’re so beautiful, what does this mean?”

Castiel answered him with another kiss, firm and insistent. Sealed the deal.

 

Missouri got the call on the first day of May from Valerie Krushnic, to say her time was finally up and that she had nobody else to collect her. Missouri’s car, with its busted passenger window stuck an inch open and the radio that was stuck on one channel, felt so small as Valerie, with all her presence, squeezed into the passenger seat, her luggage dumped unceremoniously in the trunk.

Missouri looked at her for a long time. Valerie was so different from the first time they’d met. Her dark hair was still untamed, but it was clean, smelled of coconut, and tumbled about her shoulders, which had filled out a little. She’d been fed well at the centre, and no longer looked gaunt, like a character straight out of a Tim Burton movie. Her eyes, blue as Castiel’s, shone bright and her smile was easy. She sighed, throwing her head back against the headrest.

“Thank you,” she said, reaching for Missouri’s hand.

Missouri took it and held it tight before flipping the ignition. She had booked Valerie into a swanky hotel and spa at the other end of town, at Valerie’s request, just until they could get her sorted with an apartment, perhaps a house that Valerie would find suitable. Missouri had quite enjoyed the house hunt, and with the boys preparing for their exams, it was easy to keep it hidden.

The drive was quiet, only disturbed by the sunny voice of the radio presenter and the pre-00s rock they played. Missouri glanced Valerie’s way a few times, but each time she saw the same scene; Valerie’s head leaning against the passenger window, tracing her finger up and down the pane as country turned into town.

Valerie’s hotel room was decked in beach-themed aesthetic, with a large driftwood heart above the headboard of the generous bed. Missouri whistled low as she entered, hefting Valerie’s suitcase as she went. Seemed a strange theme to pick for Wisconsin. Valerie’s first stop was the bed and she collapsed on it with ecstatic laughter. She cuddled the pillows close to her chest, bouncing up and down with a manic grin.

“Not even a squeak,” she cried, “can’t even feel the springs.”

Missouri set her laptop on the little table gathered by the bay window and took Valerie through the houses she’d found, telling her to disregard the prices entirely. Missouri had just enough to float her a loan; half the deposit. Valerie had sworn blind she’d pay it back as soon as she had the means, and Missouri was inclined to believe her. Valerie favoured the apartments; felt it was a little less space to be responsible for. Less lonely, too. There was a sweet little place with a wrought iron fire escape, hardwood floors and large windows right in the middle of town. Missouri set up a viewing.

Ripping off a page from the hotel notebook left by the television, Missouri wrote Valerie a list of priorities. Things to focus on, to keep her on track. Among the suggestions of getting a massage and a haircut, Missouri wrote the address of the local library so that Valerie could get a resume up and going.

“You got my number,” Missouri said after a drawn-out hug by the open door, “I’ll be in touch about viewin’s okay? You just rest and recuperate.” Valerie’s eyes were shining, and Missouri reached out to catch a tear before it fell, “No more tears, now. You did it.”

“Thank you,” Valerie whispered, “for everything.”

Missouri met with Valerie the following Monday, having taken a personal day from the station. She wished Dean and Cas good luck in the first of their exams, ushered them out and tried her hardest not to laugh at their faces, pale and afraid. She told them to try their best. Whatever either of them achieved in that exam hall, she would always be overwhelmed with pride.

Together she and Valerie walked around the flat with the realtor (whom Valerie was incredibly excited to meet) and Valerie enjoyed the sound of her heels clicking against the floorboards. Said she felt like a business executive. Without looking at any of the other places Missouri had found for her, Valerie declared that this apartment was the one. There were two bedrooms, a modest sized bathroom and an open plan living area with a small kitchen. The walls were whitewashed and there were little planter boxes beneath the huge windows, where bees hovered between stalks of lavender.

Next was a trip to Madison, where Missouri took pictures of Valerie’s house with the realtor while Valerie drifted from room to room, a strangely detached expression etched into her sharp features. The little house would be prepared for the market within the next few weeks, and though it was clear Valerie was reluctant to sell the place, drenched in twenty-five years of memory, it was also plain to see she knew it was necessary. Blank slate. Fresh start.

The process of it all was smooth and efficient, exactly as Valerie needed it to be, and within a fortnight the apartment was hers. The house would be on the market for some time yet, but at least Valerie had somewhere to call home.

While the boys hung out with Bobby and the girls in the garden, Missouri would meet Valerie in secret at the old house, packing all those memories into cardboard boxes. Valerie took her through endless photo albums, most, she said that her boys didn’t even know existed. She pointed to a boy who looked so remarkably like Castiel, Missouri had to do a double take. But he was taller than Gabriel. From Valerie’s audible swallow, it was easy to deduce who he was. Such a serious expression for a child.

Between packing, counseling Valerie, and Missouri’s usual workload, she finally managed to finalise a foster home for Claire. Her aunt, who had been looking for Claire since her mother’s suicide, lived just north of Madison, a place called Bayfield, in a large house that backed onto the shores of Lake Superior with her three children. When Missouri told Cas the good news that night over dinner, he disappeared to the lounge and talked on the phone with Claire for hours.

Valerie had a lot of stuff to sell from her old home. Including a ratty brown armchair with a blood stain on the arm; Valerie ran her fingers over it.

“From Cassie’s first tooth,” she smiled.

They piled old books and children’s DVDs onto rickety fold-up tables borrowed from the local church. Valerie sold her curtains, old bed sheets from the linen closet with Power Rangers emblazoned on the front. She cleared out her closet too, keeping the boys’ clothes in garbage bags to fill the spare room of her apartment. Missouri helped Valerie to dismantle her old bed, and when the yard sale was finally over, she had enough money to buy herself a new one. Like the one in the hotel.

And when Missouri stood with Valerie in that little apartment, surrounded by all the best parts of her life thus far; pictures of her boys on the walls, old art work they’d done at school and their clothes in the spare room closet, Missouri watched Valerie’s past drift from her shoulders. All that unknowable guilt evaporated like steam from a boiling pot. She looked ready to be a mother again, tall and strong and proud. And so profoundly at peace.

 


	26. Crocus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Tracks for Chapter:  
> Mystery Of Love - Sufjan Stevens  
> Troubles Will Be Gone - The Tallest Man On Earth  
> Fall - Joshua Hyslop
> 
> You'll notice there are quite a few tracks after this last one; they were ones that didn't quite make the cut but I couldn't bear to get rid of anyway, since most of them have been in this playlist for two years, or they fit the atmosphere really well... I'm a hoarder, what can I say?

When Missouri got home that evening, having officially toasted Valerie’s rebirth (with orange juice), she was greeted by three anxious boys gathered around the dining room table, with two white envelopes sat innocently in the centre, propped up by the vase Sam had filled for her with blooms from the garden. Missouri sat with them, taking in their pale faces. She desperately wanted to tell Castiel where she had been, but Valerie had said she still wasn’t ready to see her son, or for him to know where she was, which seemed so utterly bewildering, but Missouri respected the boundaries all the same.

The envelopes held an arresting sort of power, the kind that stopped one’s heart. One was thick,  _ Welcome! _ printed on the front. The other...

“Well,” she spoke into the hefty silence, “what are you waitin’ for?”

“We were waitin’ for you,” Dean grumbled, his discomfort made clear by the relentless bouncing of his knee. She wondered if he had noticed the difference in the envelopes’ sizes.

“Go ahead,” she replied, spreading her hands, “open them.”

Missouri braced herself, a line of tension from the base of her spine all the way to the top of her head. She tried to keep her expression neutral, her voice calm. The thick envelope sat in Dean’s hands. It got harder to keep her expression sunny as Castiel clutched the less promising envelope. She watched as two pairs of eyes widened over the table, clutching at the letters in their hands. Castiel looked up at her, blue eyes awash with such a potent mixture of emotion that Missouri struggled to pick out a single one.

“Cas,” she murmured, but she was cut off by the scrape of chair legs against the floor. All at once, Dean grabbed at Castiel’s arm and pulled him up to standing. Together, clutching at their letters, they pulled their shoes on and left through the front door without a word. Sam stood to follow but Missouri held him back with a gentle shake of her head.

“Give ‘em some space,” she said, barely restraining herself, “you wanna stay and help me with dinner?”

Castiel couldn’t feel himself walking as he and Dean made their way to the garden, as if pulled, dragged by instinct. He felt like he was outside of himself, floating, in some sort of trance. He’d been rejected. And it felt bad, really bad. Like he’d let everyone down. Especially Charlie, who had held his hand the whole way, prepared him, moulded him for this. His grades were up, but his past had sealed the deal, or ruined it in this case. It was hard to feel anything other than abject failure. Dean was struggling too, his face drawn and covered in deep lines.

When they settled on the grass by the shed, Dean finally cleared his throat, “So? What does yours say?”  Castiel glanced at him solemnly, passing over his letter. “Cas,” Dean smiled, which was even more puzzling, “did you read this?”

“Did I get in?” Castiel hedged, careful not to hope.

Dean shook his head, “No, sorry. But, you got a personal note! Look.” Dean pulled out a small piece of paper and read it aloud as Castiel buried his hands in the soft grass that lapped at his thighs,

“Dear Castiel, it was with great regret that we had to issue this rejection. It’s clear that you’ve orchestrated a huge turn-around this academic year, but unfortunately our applications were filled with equally promising students, who, put honestly, had better behavioral records. I didn’t want to simply dismiss you or have you believe that everything you’ve done has been for nothing, so I wrote this to try and explain the disappointment you undoubtedly feel. I wanted to provide you with information on some college courses you might consider, to continue building this new attitude, and I hope one day, you find the courage to apply once more. We’d be happy to have you. I wish you all the very best.

“Shit,” Dean chuckled, “it’s from the Dean. Not his assistant or whatever… that’s awesome.”

Castiel fiddled with his sleeve, feeling sincerely uncomfortable. Dean’s hand fell onto his arm, squeezing lightly.

“What do you think?” Dean asked quietly.

“That I want to see your letter,” Castiel deflected, putting this conversation solidly under Charlie’s jurisdiction. She’d know what to do. He’d call her later.

Dean considered his letter with a tense expression, “I got in,” he shrugged. Castiel twined his fingers with Dean’s, squeezed to express his sincere joy. Of course, Dean got in. “But, I don’t wanna go,” he continued, “not yet.” Castiel understood. It had been the hardest few months for Dean, and Castiel knew he wouldn’t want to be away from Sam so soon after such a tragedy. “Bobby mentioned stickin’ around here for the year, helpin’ him fix up cars. He knows the guys down at the garage… I think I like that more. I just can’t leave right now.”

Castiel gathered him in his arms, pressed a sound kiss to the soft waves of Dean’s hair, “You can defer.”

“Yeah?” Dean asked, raising his head, eyes full of hope. Castiel kissed him just because he could, stroking his thumb across Dean’s cheek, bristly with stubble that hissed beneath his touch.

“Keep your place, defer a year, people do it all the time.”

Dean reached tentatively towards him, taking his hand. They were still trying to shrug off the inner voices that told the two of them to bottle this thing up, told them not to touch, not to hold on. Dean was proving braver in that respect. Their fingers tangled together, painfully tight. Dean used them to bring Castiel up on his knees, hovering closer to Dean as he leaned up to press his lips to Castiel’s. A chaste kiss. It was immediately unsatisfactory. Like everything with Dean, Castiel was forever wanting more. And now he got to take it. Castiel pressed deeper into the kiss, felt Dean smiling into it as he lowered himself down into the grass. Castiel spread out beside him, kissing lazily, but deliberately. Showing Dean that he could take more, could have everything he wanted. Castiel was his.

A few moments Castiel felt a familiar twinge of self-consciousness, imagining Bobby catching them from his bedroom window. He pulled away, Dean chasing his lips greedily with a chuckle, before relenting and rolling onto his back with a heavy sigh. The sting of rejection was already fading to a pleasant buzz. Castiel would work something out, this wouldn’t set him back ten steps, not after he’d already come so far. He’d be better. Had to be. Contentment sunk his limbs into the soft grass. He watched the summer evening around them, the bees buzzing lazily, dipping into honeysuckle and foxglove, bobbing on the lavender that spread its heady scent in the dying heat.

“What happens now?” Dean whispered, his voice stolen by a fear Castiel could feel in the air around them.

“We graduate,” Castiel supplied with a squeeze to Dean’s fingers, still clasped tight in his, “and then we figure it out.”

“I mean this. Us. What happens to us?”

Castiel leaned up onto an elbow, trailing a finger over Dean’s cheek, “What do you mean? We’ll still be here, if Missouri hasn’t kicked us out by then.”

“You’ll get sick of me,” Dean said, turning away and distractedly plucking at the blades of grass that poked at his nose.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he replied, because how could Dean even _ think _ that? “I don’t know what’ll happen,” he continued honestly when Dean hadn’t turned back to him, “I know what I  _ want _ to happen.”

“Yeah?” Dean turned with wide eyes, baiting him, daring him.

Castiel closed his eyes and huffed a laugh, “Don’t make me say it.”

“You  _ should  _ say it,” Dean said, leaning over to rub his nose across Castiel’s jaw, “Missouri says you should say what you want out loud, so the universe knows what to give you.”

Castiel groaned, heat prickling along his skin following Dean’s lips, dragging slow and tinged with his mint-fresh breath, “I so don’t want to be thinking of Missouri right now.”

Dean chuckled, his breath spreading that heat down Castiel’s chest, “Sorry.”

Castiel turned his head, let Dean’s fingers thread through his hair as he brushed his lips against Dean’s. Lightning.  He closed his eyes and leant his forehead against Dean’s, breathing in that hallowed closeness. “If we want it to work,” Castiel whispered, “it’ll work.” He felt Dean’s face shift into a shy smile. Castiel’s favorite.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, voice hushed, almost drowned out by the singing of the birds in the trees.

The Impala gave both Dean and Castiel an immense amount of freedom. They spent their early summer days in the garden with Charlie and Jo, and Sam, of course. Missouri had dropped Sam off at Camp Anokijig in Little Elkhart Lake the week that Castiel found himself in the passenger seat of the Impala, driving into Madison once more.

Anticipation crawled across his skin. They had to drive past his old house to get where they were headed. Castiel’s heart clenched at the For-Sale sign perched by the fence, the front lawn neatly mowed, the door repainted. Even from the brief glimpse he got as Dean sped by, it didn’t seem like his house at all. Did houses just get sold after being empty for so many months? Had Marv put it up hoping to pocket the money? Despite the deep ache, the grief he felt for that little house, the only home he’d ever known, Castiel had made his peace with the place. He hoped it made another family happier than his had been.

Gabriel’s apartment was squalid, a rundown block with mysterious holes in the walls and a pervading smell of damp which clung to the air. But, when his brother opened the door, his face said it all; Gabriel was so proud, so happy to have been given a second chance that a little mold couldn’t dampen his spirit. He pulled Castiel in for a hug that robbed him of air, and did the same for Dean, despite having never met him before. Gabriel had always been that person, though, the kind who could accurately judge a character from first glance, and he clearly liked what he saw with Dean.

“Come in, come in,” he ushered, kicking his shoes out of the way as they followed him across the threshold. The apartment smelled strongly of instant ramen. There was a collapsing couch by the window, facing a corner table upon which perched a little, black television. Castiel glanced around at the bare walls, the unusual stain that spread itself halfway across the ceiling and grinned.

“You like-y?” Gabriel grinned, offering a beer to Castiel with a wink.

“It’s hideous,” Castiel laughed, twisting the cap from his bottle and taking a long pull, covering the urge to cough as it fizzed back up his throat.

“Isn’t it?” Gabe laughed, pulling them over to the couch and sitting himself cross-legged on the carpet, “but it’s mine. Well… the landlord’s… but also mine.”

Castiel sat with Dean on the dilapidated sofa, placing his backpack on the floor and pulled out the photographs he’d been meaning to give to Gabriel back in December. He’d gotten them framed and blushed a little as he handed them over. “A little housewarming gift,” he said, as Gabriel’s eyes widened in surprise.

“I know you ain’t tryna make me cry right now,” Gabriel chuckled, the sound a little strained, “C’mere.” Castiel was pulled into a crushing hug, Gabriel whispering his thanks before pulling away and placing the frames on the windowsill.

Dean spread himself easily, his arm reaching over the back of the couch to rest at Castiel’s shoulder blade where, hidden from Gabriel’s view, his fingers ran back and forth absently. Castiel melted into the touch.

“So, community service?” Castiel prompted, taking another swig of beer.

Gabriel leant back against his hands, “Yup. Pickin’ up garbage on the highway ain’t exactly a party, but it’s a damn sight better than the slammer.”

Castiel let relief flood his chest as he leaned further into Dean’s touch, which had moved to the nape of his neck.

“How’re you paying for this place?” Castiel asked, eyeing the empty Chinese takeout boxes stacked on the kitchen counter.

“Got me a part-time job,” Gabriel preened, “baggin’ groceries. Ain’t pretty, but it pays the bills, and this place, you’ve probably deduced, is dirt cheap.”

Castiel leaned down to his bag, pulling out his rejection letter.

“What’s that?” Gabriel asked, craning his neck over the coffee table.

“I didn’t want to tell you over the phone,” Castiel explained as he handed it over.

Gabriel glanced over the paper, his eyes widening with confusion. “Wait, so…”  Castiel nodded. He told Gabriel of Charlie’s plan, to apply and enroll into community college for the Spring. Despite the bittersweet solution, Gabriel’s pride shone through his golden eyes. “You’re gonna be in the city? For the next two years?”

“Well, maybe, yeah.”

“You’re welcome to stay any time,” Gabe said, “both of you. Though, I’ve gotta request that you guys don’t… you know,” he trailed, motioning between them. Castiel’s chest clenched and he looked to Dean to see his panic mirrored. “Quit gawking, you guys are obvious as a neon sign. It’s cool,” Gabe chuckled, “just don’t want to be washin’ those sheets.”

Castiel threw a cushion straight at his face.

They spent the balmy summer evenings at the Roadhouse with Jo and Charlie or huddled around the firepit Ellen had built round the back of the bar, wrapped in blankets and staring at the stars, swapping hopes and fears, and tales of summers past. They were there the night of prom, just the four of them, the heat of the fire reddening their cheeks just as much as the whiskey Jo passed around. Dean was almost in Castiel’s lap, he was so close, and completely unafraid of being them when they were with Jo and Charlie, who were also wrapped close together, their affection lit beautifully from the fire.

Dean’s head rested comfortably against Castiel’s shoulder as he pulled their blanket right up under his chin. When he spoke, his voice vibrated against Castiel’s arm.

“You know how I knew I might not be all straight?” Charlie spat out a surprised laugh, Jo looking amused across the crackling logs. Dean chuckled, threading his fingers through Castiel’s and dragging their hands into his lap, his thumb tracing over each of Castiel’s knuckles in turn. “I, uh, used to be crazy-obsessed with Gunner Lawless.”

Castiel frowned but Jo seemed to catch on immediately, “The wrestler?”

“I collected posters of him, had one that I’d put above my bed wherever we went. But I took ‘em down after I… uh… had a few dreams that were just…”  Dean was laughing just as openly as everyone else, and Castiel felt a strange sense of pride. He knew how much it took Dean to admit this to himself; admitting it out loud would have taken a great deal of courage. Castiel raised their hands from beneath the blanket to kiss Dean’s knuckles.

“Sorry to disappoint,” Castiel chuckled against the soft skin.

On their way home that night, staggering around in the dark, Dean pressed Castiel against the wall of the cafe and showed him just how much of a disappointment he wasn’t. With hands and teeth and mouth and tongue. Castiel’s gasps floated on the air like smoke.

And on the day of the block party they had planned for graduation, Castiel sat at Missouri’s desk, his guardian angels, Missouri and Charlie hovering at his shoulders to guide him through his college application. There were still doubts plaguing the whole process for Castiel, but Missouri swatted at his arm affectionately when he voiced them.

“Boy, you don’t gotta worry about none of this. We’ll figure it out. Just submit it, already, I can’t wait!”

Sam, back from camp, skin brown, hair long, piped up then too, “If it’s about the fees… I wanna give Cas some of my inheritance money.”

The room fell silent. Castiel’s heart constricted painfully. Before he could refuse, Dean smiled wide, “Dammit, Sammy, takin’ all the good ideas. I’m in.”

“I…” Castiel stammered, words robbed from his mouth.

Charlie leaned close, her hand covering his on the mouse, using their fingers to click Submit.

The garden bustled with heavy activity; glasses clinked, birds sang, meat and vegetables sizzled on portable grills. The honeysuckle released sweet scent where it dominated the fence, hiding the ugly chains beneath. Bluebells blanketed the ground, petunias sat pretty, waving gently in the breeze. Castiel gazed around at the sight, the joy of his application still dancing bright in his chest. The kindness of all of those he’d gathered around him threatened to overwhelm him.

He found Charlie and Jo, gathered by the sunflowers. He worried for them, now that Charlie was heading to Wellesley, but his anxiety wasn’t shared by the girls, who laughed it off easily as water from a duck’s back.

“I got one more year here,” Jo said, “and, provided mom can bear the idea of me moving out, I’ll go join her. Get a job there or something. We want it to work, so it’ll work, right?” Charlie pulled their conjoined hands to her mouth, kissing Jo’s knuckles soundly in turn. “Also helps that you and Dean will be here for another year too, obviously,” Jo chuckled, “I won’t be entirely without friends.”

There were people from the town Castiel had never met before, but they all enjoyed the beauty of the garden, eating and drinking with one another in a way that just seemed right for the magic of the place. Castiel was so immensely proud of it, every little bit. Sam and Jess swayed on the tire swing they’d finally managed to hang, the dappled sunshine dancing across their happy faces.

He found Dean with Bobby, nursing a beer, head thrown back in laughter, the way he loved him most. Upon joining them, his fingers reached for Dean’s which wrapped tightly around Castiel’s hand without hesitation.

“Bobby,” Dean bounced on his heels, “tell Cas what you just told me.”

“Managed to swing Dean an apprenticeship at the garage,” Bobby said, eyes darting to Dean as if to confirm he’d said the right thing. Castiel buzzed, bumping his shoulder into Dean’s. Though it felt inevitable, Castiel was still immeasurably proud. Dean sighed heavily, “Yeah, yeah,” he waved with a loose wrist, “but the other thing.”

“Oh,” Bobby reddened, his hat making it back to his hands, “they want me to come back and be manager.”

Laughter burst from Castiel’s chest and without a second thought, he flung his arms around Bobby’s neck.

“I’m so happy,” he gasped, realising how true that really was. Despite everything, all the hurt, all the pain, all the fear, they’d all made it through to this moment. This day, sunshine so bright it burned at Castiel’s cheekbones, convinced Missouri out of her scarves and into a flowy floor-length dress of ecstatic colors. Dean was radiant. Grief had mercifully left him alone that day, and he moved with an ease, like he felt as light as he looked. Dean nodded to Bobby, a  _ be right back _ , before using their entwined hands to pull Castiel away, out of the garden to the sidewalk, where Dean had parked Baby.

“Finally, got you to myself,” Dean chuckled, pressing Castiel back into the cool frame of the Impala. Castiel molded to Dean instantly, as he so often did, putty in his hands. The kiss he received was slow and deliberate, and he felt his head melt into delirium.

“It doesn’t seem real,” Castiel said quietly between kisses, unsure if he’d even said it out loud.

“Which part?” Dean replied, pulling away slowly.

Castiel shrugged and Dean’s arms tightened around him.  “All of it. You. This. Never in a million years did I think I’d ever graduate. Or end up with someone. With _ you _ ,” Castiel snorted, “It’s just a dream.”

Dean kissed his cheek, “Do you feel that?” Castiel laughed and nodded. Dean’s breath huffed against his cheek, smelling faintly of beer and cheeseburgers. A gentle nibble on his earlobe made Castiel squirm.

“And that?”

“Yes,” Castiel cried breathlessly, “stop it.”

“It’s all real,” Dean said, a bright smile pressed into Castiel’s neck, “everything. We survived. And we’re together. Nothing and nobody’s gonna tear us apart.”

“Castiel?”

The boys jumped apart at the sound of Missouri’s voice, a blush rose to cover Dean’s neck, colouring the tips of his ears. She just smiled as if she had known all along and said nothing more about it.

“Castiel, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you, and… well I have something to show you.”

Castiel frowned, but Missouri’s face showed no sign of hesitation, only open excitement and hope. He nodded, took the hand she offered and followed her back into the party. There was a slight hush that had fallen upon the garden, conversations died down to a quiet murmur, and over a hundred pairs of eyes followed his journey.

When he saw her, something in him broke.

Valerie stood in a beautiful white dress that fluttered around her calves, her hair was washed, her skin clear and bright. He couldn’t remember a time he’d ever seen her that way.

“Cassie,” she sighed.

“Mom,” he choked, and against his better judgement, he closed the distance between them in seconds. He breathed in the new scent that clung to her; she smelled like the garden, fresh and alive. Her hands, complete with neatly painted nails held his face between them as she pulled him from her shoulder to take a closer look.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” she whispered, tears brimming and falling without a blink down her cheeks, so rosy with health.

“Where did you go?” Castiel said, his throat sore as if he’d swallowed a brick whole.

“I went to get better,” she smiled, “I couldn’t call for a whole month, and then… I thought you’d never forgive me. I should’ve called, Cassie, I should have… I’m so sorry.”

Castiel shook his head, all that resentment fell away. Useless to him now.

“I sold the house,” she continued, “and I wanna use it to help pay for college.”

“Mom-”

“No, I need to do this, baby. I got enough to cover you, cover Gabe’s legal fees, I got it all. I have a little apartment now, here in town.”

“What?” Castiel felt a swelling pain in his chest, a hardness breaking between his lungs.

“You can come live with me, if you want? Or, come visit… I’m gonna be better this time, baby. For me. For you and Gabe-y. For _ good. _ ”

Castiel collapsed into her arms, holding her little frame tight against him. She choked on a sob, as her hands smoothed over his hair, over and over. Castiel couldn’t remember the last time he’d held his mom this way, but relief flooded him, a lock clicked open.

And from his left he heard a snort of laughter. He glared, but found Dean staring at him with soft eyes.

“Holy shit, Cas,” he breathed, and Castiel frowned. Dean’s fingers reached for his cheek and came away glistening. Castiel’s frown deepened.

“You’re crying,” Dean grinned, his own eyes beginning to well.

Castiel felt himself break like a dam. He laughed, pawing at his own face, the tears streaming all the way down his neck, crawling down his collar. His laughter spread, and he held his mother tight once more. He felt arms tighten around him, and as he gazed around from his mother’s shoulder, he saw Sam at one side, Missouri on the other, Dean’s warmth pressed against his back. They stayed that way, crying and laughing in equal measure as others joined, Jo and Charlie first, then Bobby and Ellen, until there were faces Castiel didn’t know wet with tears and laughing with joy.

And in that moment Castiel felt whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If that's still not enough, Number One Bae-ta wrote this based off one of the MANY dumb conversations we had during this whole adventure, do enjoy!

**Author's Note:**

> If you are at all worried about the warning, please feel free to message me, I'm more than happy to tell you *where* in the story it comes, but know that it is only a mention, and it is also a false accusation. No character, anywhere in this story, is actually raped. If you are still worried about this, don't worry, just drop me a line and you can avoid it all together :).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Graphics for In Secret Places](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16299308) by [lotrspnfangirlgraphics (lotrspnfangirl)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotrspnfangirl/pseuds/lotrspnfangirlgraphics)
  * [Secret Ingredient](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16319621) by [Brinchestiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brinchestiel/pseuds/Brinchestiel), [mrshays](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrshays/pseuds/mrshays)
  * [Secrets Told](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17398391) by [Brinchestiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brinchestiel/pseuds/Brinchestiel), [mrshays](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrshays/pseuds/mrshays)




End file.
